


Hockey at the End of the World

by ionthesparrow



Series: Hockey at the End of the World [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Dystopia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff has a plan:  Get to camp, skate well.  Make the team.  Do well.  Make the Orange.  Survive.  Win Cups.  Get free.</p><p>Easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hockey at the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: For anyone who cares deeply about how the OHL, AHL, the entry draft, the scouting combine, contracts or how UFA/RFA status actually works, this may not be the story for you – because I have messed with _everything_. Most notably, events from the 03-04, and 04-05 seasons have been combined, and the 04-05 lockout has been disregarded entirely. (Much) more extensive notes follow at the end.
> 
> If you don’t know/don’t care about some of the above acronyms – no worries! You should be fine!
> 
> As always, thank you to [staraflur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/staraflur/pseuds/staraflur) and [Trip Trap](http://archiveofourown.org/users/trap) for reading and invaluable feedback. These are the people who make you stop and say to yourself, “People on the internet are _so nice_ ”
> 
> Finally, erring on the side of caution here: This story contains homophobic slurs, and violence against vulnerable parties.

 

 

He gets scouted playing juniors – which is so far removed from the real thing it’s hardly the same game. But whatever, it’s enough to get him a bus ticket to Toronto and the PerT clearance to go. 

It’s fucking cold in Toronto. Not that it’s not cold back in the Soo, but the buildings here are like a wind tunnel that pushes back against him as he crunches down gritty, slush-covered sidewalks. Jeff squints skyward; the sun is an almost invisible disk behind the clouds. Back home they’re probably just heading off to lunch break. He tugs his bag further up onto his shoulder and keeps walking. It’s not far from the bus stop to the convention center, and in the distance he spots a massive banner proving he is, after all, in the right place. 

NHL SCOUTING COMBINE - DRAFT 

Jeff turns the word _combine_ over in his head. He thinks mostly of farm equipment, the flashing blades of a thresher, but it reminds him of something else too. It’s sitting right at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t think what it is. And the more he thinks about it, the more his mind seems to shuffle it away. All he can come up with are images of birds. And birds’ nests. Which, _weird_. 

The sign’s also got a massive spotlight pointing at it, like maybe they’re all moths to a flame, or even simpler, like maybe they’re all just knuckle-dragging throwbacks that need things spelled out for them in giant, backlit letters. And really, Jeff considers, they are _volunteering_ to strap blades to their feet, arm themselves with sticks, and try to kill each other. So, yeah, maybe fucking _idiotic_ does just about cover it. 

But hey, seven years or three cups. You can’t beat that. 

At the door, Jeff wipes his nose across the back of his mitten, and then digs under the collar of his jacket and sweater for his PerT tags. They’re warm from lying flush against his skin. He leans down so he can hold one against the card reader without pulling them off. The light flashes from red to green, and the door clicks open. 

The building’s not heated – although Jeff’s heard Toronto does have public buildings that are – but it’s got NextGen insulation, so it’s considerably warmer inside, and it’s crowded, which helps too. He blinks, stumbling for a second over the sudden press of warmth and noise. He’s walked into a big bunker of a building, and there are suddenly a million voices echoing around him. Looking around, the room is full of dudes his own age, who look like they’re sharing to varying degrees the shell shock he’s feeling. He shuffles into place at the end of a long-ass line, just mostly hoping it’s where he’s supposed to be. 

The line moves at a glacial pace. Jeff feels sweat begin to dampen his hairline, and he strips off his hat and gloves. The front of the line turns out to be a guy, sitting at a desk. Wordlessly, he holds out his hand. Jeff unsnaps one his PerT tags from the chain around his neck and hands it over. The guys slides it through his tablet. He glances up at Jeff. Jeff makes the same expression he’s doing in his photo, which is to say, no expression. The guy taps something in and hands the tag back to him. “Position?” he asks. 

Jeff clips the tag back into place. “Center.” 

The guy tips his head, gesturing with his chin. “Second door on left. Here, take this.” He pushes something at Jeff. 

The item turns out to be a shrink-wrapped pair of gym shorts. He nods his thanks, but the guy’s already gesturing at the kid behind Jeff to hand over his tag. 

The indicated doorway leads to a locker room, where he’s greeted at the door by a guy with a clipboard. “Number?” he asks. 

“Number?” Jeff repeats dumbly. 

Guy #2 scowls at him. “On the _shorts_ , numb nuts.” 

Jeff grits his teeth but pulls out the shorts to look at them. 1094 is printed on the leg, which Jeff dutifully reports. 

He scratches it down onto his clipboard. “Strip down,” he informs Jeff in a monotone. “Yes, the socks and underwear too. Sit on the bench. You’ll get called up in groups of ten.” 

Jeff rolls his eyes and shuffles forward into the locker room. Behind him, he hears the guy ask the next kid, “Number?” 

He shoves his clothes into his bag and finds a spot for it in an empty locker. He takes an empty spot on the bench that runs the length of the room and looks around, subtly. He wants to check out his competition, but without looking like he’s _checking out his competition_. It’s kind of a weird sight. Tons and tons of seventeen and eighteen year olds naked except for identical black gym shorts. But what really hits him is how _big_ everybody is. Back home, he had almost half a foot on like, everyone, but a lot of the guys here are just as tall as he is, or close to it. Jeff swallows, runs his hands across the tops of his thighs, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. He steals another glance - the guy sitting to his left is fucking enormous. He does not look like someone Jeff would want to run into anywhere, much less on the ice, armed with a stick, and going 20+ mph. 

The guy on his right is built, but at least he’s a normal height. The guy on his right – 

The guy on his right is regarding him skeptically, having caught Jeff staring. Jeff flushes and looks at the ground. 

“So this is fucking weird,” the guy on his right says. Jeff glances over at him, his face is screwed up, like his bitten into something sour and he’s looking straight ahead. Jeff shrugs. 

“I mean,” the guy looks over at him out of the corner of his eye, “there are more kids here than there are people in my entire fucking _town_.” 

His disgusted tone surprises a chuckle out of Jeff. After a beat Jeff says, “We look like some kind of weird army.” 

“Yeah. With, like, the most messed up uniform, ever,” the guy agrees. 

Jeff’s mouth twitches. He looks over at his neighbor. “I’m Jeff.” 

“Mike,” Mike says, and regards him solemnly for a second before extending his hand in the universal fist bump gesture. 

Jeff reciprocates, banging their knuckles together lightly. They lapse into silence, waiting. It seems like today’s going to involve a lot of waiting. Jeff watches goose bumps rise up on his arms and legs. Even packed in here like sardines, it’s drafty. He rubs one icy foot along his opposite shin. “You’d think they’d at least let us keep our _socks_. What’s that about?” 

“Huh? Oh. They probably want to make sure we’ve got all our toes, still.” 

Jeff feels his eyebrows lift in surprise. “What?” 

“Dude, it gets fucking cold up north. Losing toes is like, a _thing_. You get down a few digits and you can’t balance as well in your skates.” Mike holds his toes out and wriggles them. 

Jeff can’t really tell if he’s joking so he just says, “You’re from up north?” 

“Yeah. Northern part of Ontario.” 

Jeff glances over at him sharply. It’s been awhile since he heard it called that. Mike doesn’t seem aware he’s said anything weird though, so Jeff just says, “You play up there?” 

Mike nods, then shrugs. “Yeah. When I can. There’s a lot of stuff to do at home, you know.” He looks away. “You?” 

Jeff nods towards the south. “I’m from, like, two hours that way. But I’ve been billeted over in Sault Ste. Marie for the last couple years.” 

Mike looks over at him in surprise, “For hockey?” 

Jeff shrugs. “Yeah.” 

Mike lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’re basically a pro already. I should be pressing you for tips on making the cut, shouldn’t I?” 

_Be big_ , Jeff doesn’t say, which is what the scout said was the most important thing. He squirms on the bench and racks his brain for what else the scout told him. “Hustle. Skate fast. Hit hard. Don’t give anybody attitude.” 

Mike scoffs. “Yeah, I don’t know about that last one.” 

Jeff drops his gaze. “Sorry. I know it’s lame advice.” 

Mike bumps his knee against Jeff’s. And when Jeff looks over, Mike shrugs. “Whatever, man. It’s cool.” 

And then there’s a guy walking down the bench, counting them off. “Nine and… ten.” He points to Mike, stopping just before he gets to Jeff. “You boys are up.” 

Mike stands along with the rest of his group. He tosses Jeff a last look, swallows dramatically, and turns for the door. 

“Good luck!” Jeff calls after him. Mike raises a hand in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t turn back around. 

Jeff’s group gets called up soon after, and the next two hours are a blur of sweat and guys with clipboards asking him questions, and more sweat. The highlight is probably being literally _taped_ into place on a stationary bike with a mask covering his nose and mouth. Or maybe the beep test, which was fucking _hard_. The lowlight is definitely having to stand there while freaky old guys discuss his body and where he’s likely to put on muscle and all the shit that’s wrong with him as if he wasn’t _right there_ listening. 

Nobody asks his name, and occasionally someone will just reach out and grab his PerT tag to run through their card reader, jerking his head forward in the process. After the last time it happens, Jeff scowls and rubs the back of his neck, glaring daggers at the retreating back of the guy that did it. 

“Easy, kid,” one of the assistants says – Jeff’s figured out the system: the important guys have tablets and card readers, the assistants are the ones with clipboards – “It means they’re interested in you.” He claps Jeff on the arm. 

Jeff nods, schools his face back into bland neutrality. 

He gets sent to yet another line. This one winds past the rink proper and terminates at a white privacy screen with a red cross emblazoned on it. It is, according to the guys coming back, the turn-your-head-and-cough line. Great. On the plus side, while he’s shuffling his way toward the next invasion of his personal space, he’s got a great view of the one-on-one drills going on on the ice. 

It’s easy to pick out the guys that have been playing in a league – for one thing they know how to stick handle, and how to use the boards. Jeff picks out the Russian players easily too; they all have that long-strided skating style that seems to get them around the ice faster than anybody else with half the effort. That and they _never_ give up the puck without a fight. 

Then there’s everybody else. 

Like the guy who’s coming onto the ice now, holding his twig like he’s never held a real hockey stick before. And maybe he hasn’t. Even the old-school wooden sticks they’ve giving them here to practice with are probably more than some of these guys have had access to. The kid on the ice switches his grip up on the stick a couple of times while he takes a warm-up lap, trying to get a feel for it. Even from here, Jeff can tell the lie is all wrong for him – the stick’s meant for somebody taller, but he appears to be making do. 

He skates past where Jeff is standing, and Jeff gets the briefest glimpse of his face as he goes by. The player’s face is hard, focused, and yet Jeff’s pretty sure that’s the kid he was sitting next to earlier this afternoon. That’s Mike. 

Jeff is suddenly much more invested in this matchup, which is why his heart drops when Mike’s opponent steps onto the ice. He is, in a word, _fuckinhuge_. And he’s got wheels too. The bigger guy moves around the ice with an easy grace. He pushes his stick along in front of him with a lazy, one-handed grip, looking for all the world like he’s out for a Sunday stroll. He glides out slow to meet Mike in the faceoff circle, and drifts to a snowplow stop that’s too perfectly awkward to be real. _He’s fucking with you, Mike,_ Jeff wants to shout. _Don’t fall for it_. 

But Jeff hasn’t suddenly developed telepathy, and as soon as the ref drops the puck, the slow, lazy act is gone. He’s lightning fast now, and before Mike seems to have realized what’s happened, the bigger guy has sniped the puck and is halfway to the net. 

Jeff winces. 

But apparently it’s not over – because Mike is after him like a shot. And he may not be a pretty skater, but he is _fast_ , and he’s careening toward the other guy like a fucking cannonball. Jeff tenses. It does not look like Mike’s going to stop, and Jeff can think of plenty of smarter options than to try to hit a guy who’s got at least six inches, thirty pounds, and few hundred more hours of practice staying upright on skates than you. 

He almost looks away, but in the end he’s glad he didn’t, because Mike lays the other guy _out_. He scoops up the puck, and with a neat economy of motion, deposits in the net at the other end of the rink. 

“Yeah!” Jeff looks up, startled. A couple of the guys down the line from him are banging on the glass with their fists. “Beauty hit!” 

Even the kid in front of him, who hasn’t said a goddamn word the whole time they’ve been waiting, lets out a low, appreciative whistle. He nods at Jeff and then points his chin out towards where Mike is skating off the ice. “Maladets, eh?” 

Jeff blinks, surprised. Russian. And yeah, now that he’s turned toward him, Jeff can see the barcode tattoo on the left side of his chest. He nods, agreeing, because some things are pretty clear even with a language barrier. “Yeah. Nice hit.” 

The Russian kid looks like he wants to say something else, but after a moment, he just shrugs and turns back around. It must be tough, Jeff thinks. It’s hard enough being here. It’d be even worse to not speak the language at all. 

Eventually, they make it to the front of the line, and the Russian kid disappears behind the screen. Jeff’s watching the players on the ice, so misses the start of it – but suddenly the screen shakes, almost tipping over. There’s a loud curse, and the Russian kid stumbles out from the behind the screen, all the color drained from his face, and his fists drawn up in front of him. The doctor is out a split second later, _screaming_ , one hand clamped to his face, blood dripping out from between his fingers, staining his white lab coat a brilliant, vivid red. 

Jeff hardly even has time to realize what’s going on before two militiamen are there, all geared up in their dull, black body armor. They’ve got the Russian on the ground before he can even blink. Their Taser makes a dull, clicking sound, and the kid goes still. 

They’re gone just as fast. They take the Russian kid with them. 

For a long minute after they leave, Jeff can’t hear anything but the sound of his own heart thumping wildly. He’s flooded with so much adrenaline he can barely swallow; his hands twitch at his sides. For a second, Jeff is somewhere else - and then his mind slams down a curtain of white static. 

“Hey!” 

Jeff’s gaze snaps to the doctor. He’s cleaned his face, and he’s got tissue paper stuffed up his nose. It’s clear from his tone this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get Jeff’s attention. He snaps his fingers and points to the screen. “Ten-ninety-four, let’s go.” 

Jeff forces himself out of his daze and complies. 

After the physical are the skating drills. Jeff dangles around his first and second opponents easily, but gets flattened in his third go-round. The worst part is, he doesn’t even see it coming. He skates a lap around the ice, getting a better feel for his loaner gear. It reeks like it’s been soaked through with the sweat of a dozen guys – which, it probably has. But his skates fit well enough; the ice is in decent condition, everything else he can work with. Then he’s being called to center ice for the faceoff. He crouches low, digs the edge of his skate into the ice. Adrenaline hums through him, and the background noise just fades out. All he can see is the ref’s hand closed around the puck. 

And then it drops. 

He’s like a dog let off leash – lunging forward even as the puck hangs in the air – 

But it’s not enough. 

The other guy is faster. His shoulder catches Jeff hard as he plows past him, so Jeff misses half a beat before he gives chase. By then the kid is long gone, fluid strides taking him down the ice at an unbelievable rate. He snaps the goal into the net with a wicked wrist shot. Jeff hauls off and circles back up ice. He watches the other guy skate off the ice and swallows down vicious, bitter anger in his gut. 

He gets sent back to the locker room to change, and then to the bleachers with everyone else who’s done skating for the day, to wait. Watching the kids who are left on the ice, he takes a certain amount of satisfaction in the fact that the guy who beat him is beating _everyone_. When he pulls off his bucket between matchups, Jeff is half-expecting to see a robot, but instead it’s just a normal kid, with a mop of sweaty red-blond hair. 

They’re cut from hundreds down to dozens. Jeff makes the cut. He’s not surprised. He’s not an idiot; he knows he’s _good_. If he weren’t _good_ he wouldn’t have been playing hockey for his Work Placement. The Blue  & White sure as shit isn’t known for being charitable, and if he hadn’t been pulling his weight on the team he’d have been bounced back to London _tout suite_. And that would mean, Jeff thinks, being stuck in a factory somewhere, churning out widgets or napalm or something for the next thirty years. Or if he was insanely lucky working in one of the greenhouses. He shudders. 

So yeah, he’s good. He’s going to get drafted. But is he good _enough_? Because it’s not enough to make it to the minors – that doesn’t count against your seven years. He’s got to make it to the Big Show. 

_Seven years_ , Jeff thinks, _or three cups_. 

Freedom. 

Hell, best case scenario, he could be a Free Agent by the time he’s _twenty-one_. He scowls and shoves the thought away. There are too many what-ifs between here and there. He shouldn’t even think about it. 

A body plops down next to him on the bleachers. “You look like you’re thinking way too hard about something.” Mike squints at him, sort of, almost smiling out of the corner of his mouth. 

Jeff does a double take. 

“Surprised to see me still around?” Mike waggles his eyebrows cheerfully. 

Jeff snorts. “No way. I saw the hit you put on that big guy earlier today. That was pretty sweet.” 

Mike slouches back against the bench behind him, grinning. “Yeah, that was pretty nice.” They lapse into companionable silence. Eventually Mike says, “So. Just interviews standing between us and the Draft. You nervous?” 

Jeff scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Eh. Not really? The hard part’s over.” He looks around. “Most of these guys will get drafted. Unless they say something really stupid during the interviews.” 

“You care where you go?” 

He hasn’t really let himself think that far ahead, so he shakes his head. “No. I just want to go somewhere where I’ll get the chance to, you know, play. You?” 

Mike rolls his shoulders in a fluid movement. “I’d be nice to stay close to home. Staying in Ontario would be awesome.” 

Jeff mouth tightens. 

Mike picks up on his sudden tension. “What?” 

“Don’t – ” Jeff looks around, but no one is paying them any attention. He drops his voice anyway. “Don’t call it that. In the interview.” 

Mike frowns. “What – Ontario? Does it really matter?” 

Jeff gives him a sharp look. “Yeah. Call it the Blue & White,” he says harshly. Then he gentles his voice. “It matters a lot. To some people.” 

Mike looks skeptical. “Where I’m from nobody really cares. It’s the same goddamn place.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re from the fucking _sticks_ ,” Jeff says. 

Mike looks at him, then lets out a surprised laugh. “Okay, okay.” He rolls his eyes. “The Blue & White. Got it. Any other tips, my politically savvy friend?” 

Jeff rolls his eyes. 

“Like maybe,” Mike’s voice is teasing now, and he hams up his Northie accent, bending his vowels, “I shouldn’t announce that I think the Commissioner is full of shit?” 

Jeff’s mouth twitches. He can’t help but respond, “Yeah. And you should really keep your plans to overthrow the government to yourself.” 

By the time they get called in for interviews, they’re both snickering. 

 

 

The interview process is creepier than Jeff thought it was going to be. He’s seated facing a long row of men in suits. There’s a camera pointed at him. They start by checking his PerT tags. Then they tape an electrode to his wrist, and another to his chest. The guy at the end of the table says, “Mr. Carter, I’ll be asking you a series of questions. It is important that you answer honestly, and to the best of your ability. Do you understand?” 

Jeff nods. “Yes.” 

The interviewer looks down the table, “Gentlemen?” He is answered with nods up and down the line. 

“Mr. Carter, have you ever been convicted in court of a misdemeanor or felony offense?” 

Jeff frowns. If he had, the information would be coded into his PerT tags, but he answers anyway, “No. Sir.” 

The questions continue, but his answers are basically identical. 

“Mr. Carter, have you ever tampered with or attempted to exchange your Personnel Tracker tags?” 

“Mr. Carter, do you belong to any political or activist groups?” 

“Mr. Carter, have you made any statements critical of the government?” 

“Mr. Carter, do you belong to, or have you even been approached by, the Anti-Union Party?” 

“Mr. Carter, do you embrace the political and moral authority of the State Church?” 

On autopilot, Jeff almost says no, then catches himself. “Yes, sir.” 

His interviewer nods, then continues, “Mr. Carter, are you or have you ever been married?” 

And it’s back to “No, sir.” 

“Mr. Carter, do you, or have you fornicated outside of marriage?” 

Jeff feels himself blush. “No.” 

“Are you homosexual?” 

Jeff shakes his head. “No.” 

At the table, one of the be-suited men has been scrolling through his tablet. He stops and scribbles a note which he passes down to the moderator. His questioner reads it, then asks, “Mr. Carter, tell us what your parents do?” 

“My mother… works in a factory in London, in the Blue & White. My father – ” Jeff stumbles, unsure what to say. In the back of his head he hears shouting. Remembers the way the floodlight had lit up the wall of his bedroom. The sound of his mother screaming. He tries again. “My father – ” He tries to swallow, but his throat’s gone dry. “My father is dead,” he finally manages. It’s close enough to true. It’s probably true. 

There’s a pause, and then the moderator says, “If you’re drafted today, what is your goal?” 

Jeff’s breathes a sigh of relief. He’s back on firmer ground now. “To play in the NHL.” 

“And why do you want to play in the NHL?” 

“Because I love hockey,” Jeff says. It seems like the safest answer. 

 

 

For the draft proper, they’re herded back onto the metal bleachers. Jeff shifts his weight back and forth. He’s back in his street clothes, but it’s still cold. And uncomfortable. Mike finds him in the crowd with an ease that would be unnerving if it didn’t inspire such a massive wave of relief. Mostly they don’t say anything, just sit next to each other, waiting while someone at the front of the room explains what to do if their name is called. What to do if their name isn’t called. 

“How’d your interview go?” Jeff asks under his breath. 

Mike shrugs. “They didn’t like hearing that my dad is a Free Agent.” He doesn’t offer anything else. They lapse back into silence. 

Jeff twists his hands in his lap. It’s stupid to be nervous, he tells himself. He’s done everything he can. It doesn’t really help. 

Just when he’s starting to feel nauseated, Mike bumps his knee. “Who do you think will get called first?” 

Jeff thinks about it. “The tall blond guy, maybe.” 

Mike rolls his eyes. “Dude, half of everyone here fits the description of ‘tall blond guy.’ You for example.” 

Jeff scowls and scuffs his foot against the floorboard. “The one who ran me over,” he mutters. 

Mike cracks a smile. “Oh. You mean Eleven-oh-two. Yeah, I could see that.” Jeff follows his gaze down to where Eleven-oh-two is sitting. He looks relaxed. Asshole. 

“I was thinking the Russian guy – the one who scored with the fancy backhand.” Mike points with his chin down towards the front, but all Jeff can see is a tangle of brown hair. Mike looks over, a gleam in his eye. “Bet you a dollar I’m right.” 

“Ha. There’s no way a Russian’s going first. You’re on.” 

In the end, they’re both wrong, because the first pick is a netminder. 

Jeff feels his mouth fall open. He’s in no rush to close it because – a _netminder_? Really? 

Mike’s eyebrows are up around his hairline. “Huh.” 

And, okay, the goalies were all kept cordoned off, doing their own super special goalie tryouts, so Jeff really has no idea how good this kid is, but still. As he watches, the tall, gangly netminder takes to the stage, shakes hands with his new bosses, and dons his new Black & Gold jersey. He waves and then he’s out the door. And that’s that. For him, anyway. For Jeff and presumably everyone else in the room the anxiety ratchets one notch higher. It’s a creeping, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wants to bolt from the room. 

He’s startled by Mike’s hand clamping down on his leg – the one he didn’t realize until just now he was bouncing against the bench. Mike looks at him with a raised eyebrow. Jeff settles. 

Eleven-oh-two is the second overall pick. They call Mike’s Russian fourth. 

 

 

They call Jeff’s name eleventh. 

 

 

All the sound drops out, like someone cut the volume to Jeff’s brain. He sits, frozen, until Mike shoves him forward, whispering, “Go, you idiot. Go!” 

Even on the stage he barely registers where he is, much less where he’s going. It’s not till he’s exited to the room behind the stage that he looks down at the jersey he’s wearing. 

Orange. He’s going to The Orange. 

He looks around the room. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do now. 

Fortunately, there is a man in an orange polo waiting for him. “Congratulations, kid,” he says, gripping Jeff by the back of the neck and steering him down the hall. He deposits Jeff in a sparsely furnished conference room. “Relax. Eat something.” He gestures to a plate of sandwiches in the center of the table. “We’ve got ten more to get through. It’s going to be awhile.” And then he’s gone. 

It’s half an hour later before the guy in the polo shows up again. Jeff’s managed to choke down half a sandwich and has spent a lot of time staring at the wall. 

He walks in, and half a step behind him is Mike, dressed in an Orange jersey. Jeff blinks, like maybe he’s an afterimage, an effect of staring at a blank wall too long. And then, before he can think to suppress it, he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Oh, thank god.” 

Mike grins. 

“You two know each other?” Polo Guy says. “Eh, don’t matter. You’ve got plenty of time to get to know each other now. Show him the sandwiches, Carter. I’ll be back when they hit the third round.” 

Mike bounces on his heels. “Hey.” 

“Hey. Are you – ” 

Mike flicks some imaginary lint off his jersey. “I’m pick #24. The Orange’s second pick overall, after you of course.” He studies Jeff from through his lashes. “But I won’t hold it against you.” 

Jeff smiles. “Oh. Good.” The level of relief he feels is probably a little excessive, but whatever. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

In the end, there are eleven of them sitting around the table, staring nervously at each other: seven forwards, one D-man, and three goalies. 

The goalie coach shows up for the netminders almost immediately. “You, you, and you,” he says, pointing, “come with me.” One of the forwards is escorted out with the entirely opaque explanation that he’s on “the college plan.” Whatever that means. 

That leaves seven of them. The orange polo guy – whose name turns out to be Murray – tells them they each get a phone call, and then they’re going to development camp, in Philadelphia. “Carter,” he says, “you’re up first. Come with me.” 

He takes Jeff to what is clearly someone’s temporary office. Murray points at the phone. “You’ve got ten minutes.” And then he leaves. 

Holding the phone in his hand, Jeff’s suddenly unsure who to call. His host family in Sault Ste. Marie – they’re the ones who’ll notice when doesn’t come home. He hasn’t seen his mom in almost a year now, not since the last time they played in London. But – she’s his _mom_. 

He has to wait like five minutes for the operator to get her on the line. 

“Jeff?” he hears finally. She sounds as if she doesn’t really believe it’s him. 

He swallows. “Hi, mom.” 

There’s no response. And then he makes out the sound of a muffled sob. “Mom?” 

“I’m sorry, Jeff. I just – ” She breaks off again. 

Jeff blinks rapidly. He has to try a couple times before he can speak. “Mom, listen. I got drafted. I got drafted to go play hockey for the NHL.” 

“Oh, my god. Oh, baby – ” 

“This is a good thing, mom. I could be done in seven years. I could be done in _three_ years. I’ll be a Free Agent. I can come _home_.” 

“You don’t have to do this,” she says. 

Jeff sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “Yeah, mom. I do. And I want to.” 

There’s a long pause, where he listens to her take in long, shaky breaths. “Take care of yourself. Please don’t get hurt.” Her voice hitches again. 

“Mom – ” He’s interrupted by a sharp rap at the door. “Mom, I have to go.” 

“Wait. Where are you going? Where are you going to play?” 

“I’m going to the Orange.” Jeff bites his lip. “Will you watch me? Will you watch me play?” 

“Yes. Of course. I love you. Be careful.” 

“I love you too, mom.” Jeff sets the phone down carefully. 

Murray enters a moment later. He claps Jeff’s shoulder, shakes him gently. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.” 

Mike goes next. And if he stares hard at the wall and blinks a lot when he comes back, well, Jeff’s not going to say anything. There are three other Union guys – from The Blue & Green, The Blue & Red, and the Blue & Gray, respectively. They each get phone calls. The last two guys are imports. One of them dark-haired, with a Slavic cast to his features. He sits perfectly still and glares straight ahead, looking pissed the whole time. The other is blond – Jeff remembers that he moved with a fast grace on the ice – and spends most of the time staring at the ground or darting glances up through almost translucent eyelashes. Murray doesn’t say anything to them, and they don’t seem to expect anything in return. 

“All right, here’s how it works,” Murray says. “You all are going to development camp in Philly. You’ll train with our other prospects, and some of the guys from the farm team. If you do good, and you work hard, you might get a shot at a spot on the Phantom’s roster. As you know, your time with the AHL don’t count toward your years, but you’re not getting into the NHL without going through the AHL, got it? If you don’t work hard, or if you _suck_ , you get bounced right back up here. 

“The League is run by the Union, which means no fucking around. You don’t fraternize. You don’t go looking for local girls. You don’t try to ditch your PerT tags. You don’t try to take off.” This last is directed at the two imports. “They _are_ watching, and you will get caught. You fuck up and you’ll be bounced back here, working your thirty years in some factory just like all these non-hockey playing shmoes.” He meets each of their eyes in turn. “Now, you _do_ do good, you _do_ play well, you might make the Big Show. And you all know what that means. You give us seven years and you’re done, you’re a Free Agent, and you can do whatever the fuck you want.” 

The kid from The Blue & Green pipes in, “Seven years or three championships.” He’s watching Murray with dark, careful eyes. 

Murray smiles. “That’s right, kid. Seven years or three cups. Whichever comes first.” 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

Whatever the glory that is the NHL, it’s clear not much of it trickles down. That evening they get packed onto a rickety bus that makes the trip down to Philly in what Jeff imagines must be record slow time. He spends the trip staring out the window – it’s too dark to see anything, but he studies the tiny ice crystals forming on the glass, as each mile takes him further than he’s ever been from home. 

Glancing around, most of the guys are passed out, Mike is slumped against his shoulder snoring. Only the blond import is up with him, and he meets Jeff’s eyes coolly. The darkness outside makes it seem like they’re in a perpetual tunnel or, Jeff thinks, like two strangers on rocket ship, hurtling toward – where, exactly? Something wholly unknown. Sideneus 4 and the Pillars of the Dawn, he thinks maybe. The center of the universe. He squeezes his eyes shut. Clearly sleep deprivation is catching up to him. He tries to push all that ridiculousness out of his head and instead goes over The Plan: get to camp, skate well. Make the team. Do well. Make the Orange. Survive. Win Cups. Get free. 

Easy. 

Jeff jerks awake when the bus grinds to halt. He blinks, trying to orient himself. Mike nudges him, and when he looks over, smiles. “We’re here.” 

Jeff wipes a window in the condensate on the glass and looks out. His first impression is one of overwhelming gray. Low clouds meet the earth for the long, flat stretch of the horizon. Way off in the distance he can see the smokestacks of Philly, proper, but mostly, he sees trees. It’s snowing lightly as they step off the bus. He can see the rink, a big building that’s probably the dorms, and a smattering of smaller outbuildings. 

Murray takes them directly to the dorms, where they’re met by a sharp-featured man in wire-rimmed glasses. “Hey, Coach, how about this summer weather?” Murray says in greeting. 

“Hotter every year,” Coach answers, and they both grin like it’s an old joke. “These them?” Coach asks. 

“Yep,” Murray affirms. 

Coach looks them over critically. “Which one’s Fraser?” 

Fraser, the kid from the Blue & Green, steps forward. 

“Don’t unpack, kid. You’ve been traded. You’re headed for the Red.” 

Fraser blinks. 

Murray laughs. “Clarkie works fast, don’t he?” 

“Yeah, he sure does,” Coach agrees. 

And just like that, they’re down to six. 

The dorms are a series of long, interconnected spaces, with oddly placed doorways, and rooms that jut off at strange angles, like the structure’s been added on to repeatedly and seemingly at random. Long rows of bunks line the walls. Coach lets them drop their stuff off, then leads them to the common room where there are a couple of guys waiting for them. He nods at them. “Boys, that’s your captain, Emory Levitts, and your assistant captain, Chris Stapler.” The former looks like your prototypical hockey veteran, broad and grizzled; he regards them with watery blue eyes. The latter is younger, built like a brick wall, and has a nose that screams _enforcer_. 

Coach turns back to face them. “I’m Coach Stevens. I like to run a tight ship here, so no messing around. You’re professionals; you work for the Union now, and I expect you to act like it. That means no cursing, no fighting, no fraternizing. These guys aren’t your friends, they aren’t your buddies, they’re your coworkers. I don’t want to hear _John_ or _Bob_ or _Larry_. I’m Coach Stevens, everybody else is Mr.” He waves at the captain and alternate. “Mr. Levitts. Mr. Stapler.” Then he gestures at Jeff, waves his hand expectantly. 

“Carter,” Jeff says. 

Coach nods, looking pleased. “Mr. Carter.” He looks around to see if they’re taking it in. “Good. Now, practice starts at eight sharp tomorrow. I’ll see you then.” 

Jeff watches him leave, then shifts his attention to Levitts and Stapler. 

Levitts smiles, eyes tracking the coach out the door. “Ah, good ole’ Coach. I’m Levi, I play D. This is Stapes, he’s your third line winger. Welcome to the icy pit that is the Wachovia North Compound.” He shakes his head. “Good, God, Stapes, they look younger every year, don’t they?” 

Stapes smiles; the expression looks awkward on him 

“So here’s the thing, kids,” Levi says in a generous tone, spreading his hands wide, “half of you won’t be here by the end of the week, so don’t bother getting too friendly. And for those of you that do make it – the AHL is all the work, all the danger of big league hockey with none of the protections, none of the safety net, and none of the glory. So if you start to feel like you’ve been fucked over, get used to it.” 

Levi continues, “Now, your PerT tags will get you all over the compound but not out of it, so don’t even try.” He points towards the camera in the corner of the room, “And they are watching, so try to be subtle about the whole – ” here he makes a crude, jerking off gesture, “ – self abuse thing. Because that shit _will_ get you a visit from the Morality Officer, and trust me – you don’t want that.” His eyes cut over to Stapes. “What am I forgetting?” 

Stapes mimes throwing a punch. 

“Ah, yes. Look, I’m not going to tell you guys not to fight. But I will say, your life will be easier if you don’t get caught. Actually,” Levi pauses, tipping his head to the side thoughtfully, “that goes for most things around here. Now, morning skate should be finishing up any minute now – ” 

He’s interrupted by the front door swinging wide and a tumble of bodies pouring in. “Hey, hey!” Someone yells, “the fresh meat is here!” 

And then Jeff’s surrounded, he’s being prodded and tapped from all sides, pushed at lightly, or not so lightly. Player after player getting in his space, making faces at him. One of them gives the side of his neck a long sniff. It’s not anything weirder than he’s gotten from his starts with other teams. He looks around to see how the other rookies are taking it, and is just in time to see Mike bare his teeth at somebody who got too close. Jeff swallows a smile. 

Levi laughs. “Alright, alright. Enough, you great, ugly, brutes.” 

The players pull back. One swings a friendly arm around Levi’s shoulders. “Which one was our number one?” He locks eyes with Alex – their lone defenseman pickup, the kid from the Blue & Red. “Was it you?” 

“No, no, no,” Somebody else steps forward, and he comes to stand just in front of Jeff. “ _This_ was our number one. Right, kid?” He puts his face inches from Jeff’s. 

“What makes you so sure?” Someone jeers. 

His eyes flick up and down, moving over Jeff’s face. “He looks like he’s been around.” 

“You calling him slutty?” The crowd laughs. 

He stabs a finger into Jeff’s chest, pushes hard enough Jeff has to brace himself to keep from swaying. “I’m right, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah,” Jeff says, keeping his voice cool, “you are.” 

The guy’s eyes go wide and he whoops suddenly, sweeping Jeff into a headlock and scrubbing his knuckles roughly across Jeff’s head. “Ha! Welcome aboard, Blondie!” He’s grinning when Jeff manages to free himself, so Jeff tries to relax, take it in the nature it’s intended. “That makes you Carter. Carter, Carter, Carter. Carts! I’m Sharpie.” He slings an arm around Jeff’s shoulders and spins him to face the rest of the rookies. “Now, which of the rest of your lot is from the good, old, Blue and Blank?” 

Someone in the crowd starts humming _O, Canada_. 

Sharpie spins them roughly, almost sending Jeff tumbling over. He points out into the crowd, “You knock off that sacrilegious, counter-Revolutionary bullshit this instant! You’ll teach the babes bad habits!” 

The tune cuts off with a sad, deflating note, and a lot of laughter. 

He leans into Jeff’s ear and in a loud stage whisper confides, “Heathens. The lot of them.” Then, only slightly more gently, he turns them back to the rookies. “Well?” 

Jeff nods at each in turn, “Richards, of the Blue & White, Picard, of the Blue & Red, and Kozak, of the Blue & Gray.” 

Sharpie hums approvingly. 

“Well then,” Levi says, “Chernov, you may as well claim yours.” 

As Jeff watches a tall man steps forward. He studies the remaining two rookies carefully, then asks them something in Russian in a serious, measured tone. The blond kid shakes his head blankly. The dark haired winger answers haltingly. Chernov’s mouth crooks up as he addresses the dark-haired kid again. He laughs at the kid’s answer. Jeff listens, fascinated. The language dips up and down in tone, fluid and foreign. The imports were banned from speaking their native languages years ago – all Jeff’s heard from his foreign playing fellows is the odd, slipped curse. 

Chernov steps back and turns to Levi. “He is Slovakian. Is close enough, and he speak Russian okay.” 

Levi shrugs. “His name?” 

“Ruzicka.” Chernov pauses and squints at that blond kid. “That one I don’t know. Europe maybe.” 

Levi shrugs. “Guess you’re on your own, kid.” 

The blond kid blinks blankly, and Jeff feels a pang of pity. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

As it starts to get dark, the guys settle, playing cards in groups of threes and fours, or reading under their chemlight lamps. Jeff finishes stowing the last of his belongings and looks over at Mike. Mike is stretched out on his back, hands folded under his head. Jeff wanders over, hesitating between steps. “Hey.” He gestures sort of awkwardly at Mike’s bunk. “Can I?” 

Mike looks up at him. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He pulls his legs up to make room for Jeff to sit. Jeff studies his hands until Mike kicks him in the side. “So, _Carts_ , what do you think?” Mike is smiling. 

Jeff shrugs and makes a face he hopes conveys the helpless bewilderment he’s feeling. “We’re here, I guess.” 

“That we are,” Mike agrees. 

“Did you think – ” Jeff breaks off, not really sure what he intended to ask. 

“Did I think, what?” Mike has propped himself up on his elbows to watch Jeff. 

Jeff shrugs again and plucks at the pilled fabric of Mike’s blanket. “I just – I guess I just kept thinking, get to this point, get drafted, get here – and now that I’m here… Did you think about what’s going to happen after this?” 

Mike smiles a gentle sort of smile that makes him look not at all like a hockey player. “This is the easy part, Carts. Now all we have to do is play hockey.” 

Jeff grins a little. 

“Plus, we’re going to play hockey together. It’s going to be fun. It’s going to be _awesome_.” Mike nudges him with his foot to emphasize his point. 

Jeff’s grin widens, it’s a reassuring thought. But still – “We could get traded,” he points out. 

Mike rolls his eyes. “Well, we’ll just have to be even more awesome _together_ , so they keep us that way.” Then he pauses and blushes, like he’s just realized what Jeff has been thinking, which is that they’re getting awfully codependent, awfully fast. 

But whatever. “Carts and Richards,” Jeff says, trying out the sound of it. 

“Richie,” Richie corrects. He smiles, “and it’s going to be Richie and Carts.” 

Jeff laughs. “Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, “you just wait.” 

 

 

At morning skate, Jeff gets assigned his first real, honest to god, hockey stick. The assistant coach in charge of equipment takes him back to the gear room. “Right or left?” he asks. 

“Right,” Jeff says, and tries not to let on that he is freaking out. He is in a room _filled_ with hockey sticks. He wants to grab a bunch and hug them. Or maybe just run. 

The assistant coach runs his hands over the sticks lining the wall. He pauses and looks back critically at Jeff. “Six three?” 

“Six four.” Hockey sticks. Everywhere. _Holy shit_. 

The assistant coach eventually pulls one down and holds it out to him. Jeff takes it. It’s heavier than any of the practice sticks he’s used. Obviously. “Try this one out for a couple days, see if you like it.” 

Jeff nods. When the coach holds his hand out for the stick Jeff has to fight the urge to cradle it to his chest. The coach must notice, because his mouth quirks, and he says, “Gotta key it to you, son, or it won’t work.” 

Jeff reluctantly hands the stick over. _His_ stick. 

The coach sets the stick on the table and scans the barcode that runs along the side with his handheld tablet. He holds his hand out, “PerT?” 

Jeff snaps one of his tags off the chain and hands it over. 

The coach scans Jeff’s PerT tag too, then hands it back. He finishes coding in the assignment and hands the stick back too. “Try not to break it, eh?” 

Jeff nods solemnly and bolts for the door before he can take it back. He picks up his skates and the rest of his gear too, not that it’s anywhere near as cool as his stick, and then heads for the locker room. He sits down on the bench next to Richie, who is also admiring his new stick with a sort of solemn awe. 

He looks over at Jeff. “Holy shit.” 

Jeff nods, not even trying to play down how cool he thinks this is. “Holy shit is right.” 

Behind them, Levi laughs. “Getting fucking dressed, rookies, if you want to actually see those things in action.” 

Richie smiles. “Hell yeah, I do.” 

Fully geared up, Jeff heads for the rink. He pauses in the metal doorframe you step through to get onto the ice, and then – steps out and pushes off. His stick lights up instantly, a row of red diodes along the side blinking into life. He laughs – and just then someone swoops in to hip check him, and he has to scramble to stay on his feet. 

The skater – it’s Gratton – laughs as he sprints away, “Make sure you learn how to hold onto that thing, rookie!” Jeff looks around, and yeah, Kozak, the other rookie center has ice on his knee pads and is looking chagrined. As Jeff watches, Peluso pulls the same trick on Richie as he steps onto the ice – looking nowhere but at his brand new, shiny, stick. Richie tumbles, spinning onto his side, but he holds onto to his stick. 

Richie rolls over onto his back. “Very funny, guys,” he calls. 

“Richards, get up!” Coach Stevens yells from the bench. “We’re starting with suicides!” After they’re done, he says, “Russian circles, Levitts, lead off!” And _then_ he says, “Edge hops, crossovers, knee bends, down and back! Let’s go boys!” Plus more things Jeff doesn’t even remember the names of. He just keeps his eyes locked on Levitts and tries his best to imitate what he sees. Fourty-five minutes later he is pouring sweat – for fuck’s sake his new gear has _Kevlar_ in it – and his legs feel like jelly. 

“Good warm up, boys,” Coach says, nodding. 

Jeff studies his face to try to tell if he’s joking. 

He is not, it turns out, joking. 

When Jeff is pretty sure he’s going to die, Coach says, “Rookies, stay on the ice, everybody else you’re done.” They gather around. “Alright, boys, take a knee.” He spins a stick in his hands. “This, is a hockey stick. What you are holding, that is _your_ hockey stick. It works for you, and you alone. So don’t lose it. Don’t break it. And don’t think you can trade it with somebody. Also, it only works out here on the ice, or up in the practice room upstairs, so don’t think you can bring it back to the dorms and expect it to run.” 

He grips the shaft of his stick and twists. The sliding knife pops free of the butt end of the shaft. “This is your sticking knife.” He looks at them seriously. “This will cut you or your teammates just as easily as it will cut your opponent. No friendly fire casualties, got it?” He slides his hand lower and releases the catch mechanism for the blade. A sheen of metal, a line almost too narrow to see, appears at the bottom edge of his blade. “This is your blade edge. It’s lightly magnetized – puck’ll stick to it better than nothing but it’s also not going to keep you from passing. And, although you’re not supposed to use it like this, it is also sharp as all hell.” 

Next he runs his hands over the diodes in the shaft. “This is your battery life. You only get so many minutes per game. You go to the penalty box, you lose time. You take somebody out of the game, _legal_ , and you get his time. You run out of minutes and you’re just holding an extra heavy practice stick. Got it?” He takes in their nods. “All right. Go ahead.” 

Jeff grips and twists. The sticking knife springs free with an intoxicating hiss. It looks sharp. 

_Holy shit_ , Jeff thinks. He’s going to be playing _hockey_. He meets Richie’s eyes across the circle. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s thinking the exact same thing. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

The blond kid’s name is Rovy. He speaks French. Picard also speaks French, because he is from the Blue & Red, where _everyone_ speaks French even though they’re not supposed to, anymore. French is apparently one of those things that’s nearly impossible to stamp out. According to Picard, Rovy is Swiss. 

_Swiss_. “Ask him how he got here,” Jeff says. 

Picard rolls his eyes and gets that pinched look he always does whenever anyone asks him to break a rule. “No.” 

“Come on. You know you want to,” Jeff needles. 

Picard just glares at him. “You want to know so bad, you ask him.” He throws his cards down and heads for the door, presumably before Jeff can talk him into anything else. 

Jeff looks down at his now defunct hand of cards and sighs. He tosses them down. Rovy looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s coming back,” Jeff says. 

Rovy blinks at him. Jeff mimes throwing his cards away. Rovy sighs and starts gathering up the deck. They’re sitting on Rovy’s bunk, which is always neat as pin. Jeff rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. When things aren’t interesting here, they’re very, _very_ dull. Eat, morning skate, eat, workout, eat – then on good days they scrimmage in the afternoon, on okay days they have another afternoon practice, and on shitty days like today they’re supposed to be spending time in “quiet reflection.” 

Which he guess means they’re supposed to be working through those morality work books that get handed out for free every week, but fuck it – Stafford and Meyer are the only ones who ever even crack those. Everybody else interprets it as time for cards or dice, gambling for the little fruit cup they get for dessert sometimes, or with chore duties. Which, Jeff guesses, is a bit ironic if you think about it. 

Richie has fucked off to who-knows-where, so Jeff is hanging with Picard and Rovy, or at least he was, until Picard ditched him. His eyes slant back over to Rovy. Rovy’s been playing on his line – and he’s doing okay. He can at least keep up with Jeff, although he still isn’t great about chasing down pucks or working the corners, and Jeff can’t help but feel they could communicate better on the ice if they could, you know, _talk_. 

Rovy looks like he’s settling in for a nap, which is another popular way to spend “quiet reflection.” He stretches his arms up behind his head. Jeff watches the sleeves of his oversized sweater slipping down; he’s thinking about how imports have the _weirdest_ goddamn clothes, when he notices the brilliant purple ring of bruises around Rovy’s arm. It’s up high, around his bicep, which is sort of a strange place for a hockey injury. 

“Hey,” Jeff reaches out to catch Rovy’s arm. He slides his sleeve up. “How’d you get _that_?” 

Rovy freezes. His eyes are wide and dark, and Jeff starts to get a strange, queasy sensation in his stomach. But then Rovy blinks; he smiles a little and shrugs. Jeff lets go. 

“Carts!” It’s Richie, and he’s yelling from somewhere outside the building. 

Jeff’s still looking at Rovy. Rovy raises an eyebrow at him, like, _Aren’t you going to answer_? 

“ _Carts_!” Richie is fucking loud. 

Jeff hesitates, but Rovy’s already closing his eyes, settling in to sleep. “Fuck it,” Jeff mutters and grabs his hat on the way out. 

“Dude. What?” He calls as steps outside. It’s sunny for once, and all the solar panels on the roof are spread wide, like sunflowers. 

Richie’s cheeks are flushed red from being outside. “Carts, check it out!” He’s holding up… fish. 

“What the hell. Did you… catch those?” Jeff reaches out to poke one. 

Richie looks offended and pulls them back, protectively. “ _Yes_. How else would I get them?” 

Jeff is still skeptical. “What kind are they?” 

“Fuck if I know. Not trout, that’s for sure.” Richie shrugs. “Let’s go see if Hadley will cook them for us.” 

Richie likes Hadley because he tells wild, totally sacrilegious, and probably untrue stories about life in the pre-Revolutionary Orange. Jeff likes Hadley because he’ll give out extra snacks between meals, and Jeff’s been trying without success for a few weeks now to break 210. “Sure.” 

Hadley is about a million years old, and when Jeff watches the lines of his face rearrange themselves into an expression of extreme skepticism when Richie proffers the fish, Jeff feels a bit vindicated. Then he immediately feels bad, because Richie looks sort of crushed. And Jeff wishes, not for the first time, that his friend wouldn’t wear his heart on his goddamn sleeve quite so much. 

“Well,” Hadley says, turning them over on the counter, “I guess we could try frying them?” 

Richie brightens. 

Hadley holds out a warning hand, “Don’t make a habit of it though. They’re probably loaded with mercury. A little bit won’t kill you, but a lot’ll make you mad as a hatter.” 

Jeff exchanges a glance with Richie, who shrugs. Hadley takes in their blank faces and sighs. “Mercury? You heard of it?” When they both shake their heads, Hadley throws up his hands in exasperation and goes to set some oil to heating. “How far you boys make it through school, anyway?” 

Jeff frowns. “Grade 8.” That’s all the school there _is_ to make it through. Unless your parents are Free Agents and, like, impossibly wealthy. Besides, right after that he got shipped off to go play junior hockey. 

Hadley looks at them both sadly, although Jeff can’t for the life of him figure out why. Then he changes the subject. “I ever tell you what summers here used to be like?” 

Richie pulls a stool up the counter and sets his chin in his hands. “No.” 

Hadley gestures at him with his butcher knife before taking the head off one of the fish. “Used to get hot.” 

“It _does_ get hot here,” Jeff points out. It broke 50 degrees today; there’s only snow way up in the hills. Richie nods, agreeing with him. 

“No, man.” Hadley tosses him a leftover roll, possibly to shut him up. “I mean it used to get _hot_. Like you could walk around outside naked and still be sweating.” He gestures at the oil on the stovetop. “Like that hot.” 

This Jeff finds hard to believe, but his mouth is full so he’s willing to let it slide. 

“We used to hang out outside, ‘cause it was just too hot to be indoors. We’d go swimming.” Hadley waggles his eyebrows. “Watch the girls in their bikinis.” 

“In their what?” Jeff asks. 

“Itsy, bitsy, teeny little underwear.” 

Jeff blushes. 

Richie laughs at him. Jeff ducks his head. 

Hadley appears lost in some pleasant reverie. When he comes to he pulls out a box of breadcrumbs. “I dated an Olympic swimmer once – I mean, she wasn’t at the time, but she was still – ” he uses the box to sketch curves in the air. It’s rather lost on Jeff, who is aware women _have_ shapes; he’s just not quite sure what they are. 

He glances over at Richie, who appears thoughtful, so maybe he has a better idea. But instead he says, “Tell me about the Olympics.” 

Hadley looks surprised. “The Olympics? You remember the Olympics, don’t you?” 

Richie shrugs. “Sort of.” 

“Well let’s see… the last ones were in… ’92? So you were what?” 

“Six,” Richie says. Jeff nods. 

“Six. Sweet Jesus,” Hadley’s shaking his head again. “So in ’94, you were both – ” 

“Eight,” Jeff answers automatically. 1994: The year of The Glorious Revolution. The year they took his dad. You don’t forget how old you are when that happens. 

He blinks, Richie is poking him. “Carts?” Clearly he zoned out for a second, Richie is looking at him with soft, sad eyes. 

Jeff shakes himself. “Can I have another roll?” 

Hadley gives it to him, and ruffles his hair besides. Jeff scowls. 

“So did we win? In hockey? In ’92?” Richie turns his attention back to Hadley. 

“That depends on what you mean by _we_. There was no North American Union back then. But I believe Canada took silver, so _you_ got second. We, as in here,” Hadley points down at the ground, “got knocked out of the medals that year.” 

“So who won?” Jeff asks. 

“The Soviets,” Hadley says, “the Russians, basically.” 

“ _The Russians_?” Richie sounds shocked. 

“Crazy, I know.” Hadley sets fish down in front of them. “Now leave me alone, I gotta cook.” 

It’s hot and a little sweet; the meat flakes away in pieces under his fingers. He looks up and Richie grins at him from around where he’s sucking oil off his fingers. 

Life’s really not too bad. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

Scrimmages are the _best_ days. It’s getting close enough to the start of the season now that Coach has them scrimmaging more often. Jeff’s skates are just _singing_ down the ice, and in an instant he’s all by himself in the offensive zone. Coach brought the goalies back in to practice with them starting last week, but it doesn’t matter, because days like today, it feels like the net’s a mile wide. Jeff puts it in, easy, and his bench erupts into a chorus of stick banging and cheers. He allows himself a fist pump and skates back for the line change. 

Sharpie grabs his helmet and shakes it. “Atta boy, Carts.” 

“Beauty shot, Carter,” Levi says as he heads over the boards. Jeff smiles, pleased. 

“Careful, or he’ll get too big for his bucket.” Murphy swings his stick wide as he hops over the boards, forcing Jeff to duck out of the way. Jeff scowls. Not everyone is pleased by his ability to score. Specifically the guys that are on the fourth line – just on the edge of being on or off the team. 

His next shift they get sent out against the checking line, and Jeff gets hassled, hard. They’re playing with the tips of their sticking knives covered with rubber stoppers, but that doesn’t mean they don’t hurt. He narrowly avoids catching one in the ribs as he dangles past an opposing winger. He spots a clear lane on the ice and breaks for it, skating hard. 

Up the ice he runs into a _wall_ of D. Jeff looks up and he’s got _nobody_ there. He takes it behind the net, hoping to delay long enough for one of his wingers to get up here, but instead he gets checked hard into the boards. The D-man comes down on top of him. “Can’t do it all by yourself, can you Carter?” he says and then pushes his knee into Jeff’s stomach to get up. 

When they hit the bench, Simmy – his right wing – says, “Sorry man, got caught up.” 

Jeff shrugs and looks to his other side. Rovy’s been playing on his left, although lately _playing_ is sort of strong word for what he’s been doing on the ice. Rovy doesn’t even look at him. 

 

 

Their side loses, and Jeff is too busy being bounced around like a fucking _ping pong ball_ to get any more decent shots on net. So he’s pissed by the time they’re done. 

Sharpie ambushes him on the way out of the locker room. “Carts!” He slings an arm around Jeff’s neck. Jeff growls and tries to pull away. 

Sharpie just tightens his grip. “Oh, you are grouchy.” He slides his mouth close to Jeff’s ear and scrunches up his face. “If I said ‘ _welcome to hockey_ ’ would you punch me?” 

Jeff considers. “Maybe.” 

“Fair enough,” Sharpie concedes. “Come on, you’re not headed back to the dorms, the draft is on tonight. We’re watching it in the lounge.” 

“The draft?” 

Sharpie rolls his eyes skyward. “Your draft? Remember? How you got here?” 

Jeff frowns. “It’s not live?” 

“Oh, you sweet, innocent, lamb.” Sharpie steers him towards the lounge. “Come on, you’ll get a kick out of this.” 

Jeff balks. “Okay, fine, let me grab Richie.” 

Sharpie smiles and lets go. “But of course. Wouldn’t want to separate the twins.” 

Jeff glares. 

But it isn’t Richie he runs into; it’s Rovy. He’s got this blank, hunted expression he’s been wearing all the time off-ice lately. Jeff swallows down his irritation. “Hey, man. We’re going to watch the draft.” He gestures towards the lounge. 

Rovy hesitates. Jeff tries again, “Come on. It’s, like, a team bonding thing. It’ll be fun.” 

But Rovy just turns and walks away. Jeff shakes his head. That kid is getting _weirder_ every day. 

 

 

He and Richie are too late to claim seats, so they sprawl out on the floor in front of the TV screen. Someone hits the lights and it’s like movie night. 

There are announcers. There’s opening music. There are animated graphics. It’s slick. Jeff doesn’t remember it being this slick in person. Mostly he remembers wanting to throw up the whole time. And Richie. He remembers meeting Richie. 

The announcers start with a rundown of the top prospects, with pictures and stats. When Jeff’s image comes up there are hoots and hollers and peanuts rain down on him from all sides. “Two hundred pounds?” someone behind him reads off the screen. “Please, you’re _maybe_ 200 now; you were, like, 170 when you got here!” 

Jeff twists around and says with mock indignation, “I was not _170_!” He catches more peanuts to the face for his trouble. 

It gets strange when the draft proper starts, and the first pick – the netminder that went to the Black & Gold – walks on stage in a suit. Beside him, Richie frowns. “I don’t remember him wearing a suit.” 

Jeff shakes his head. It gets even stranger when he watches himself come onstage – number eleven! – dressed in a suit. Jeff squints at the screen. In the dark, Sharpie is suddenly hovering right next to his ear. “Trippy, isn’t it?” He presses something hard into Jeff’s hand. “Have some and pass it on. It’s a special occasion.” 

Jeff looks down – it’s a flask. He takes a pull. It burns. He takes another and then passes it to Richie, tapping it against his arm. 

Richie looks down, then back up, and grins. 

They only televise the first two rounds, but by the time it’s done the flask has made a few passes. Jeff is warm and happy, and he staggers when he stands up to leave. 

“Ug, of _course_ you’d be a lightweight,” Richie says and slings Jeff’s arm around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go home.” 

On the walk back to the dorms, Jeff says, “Do you ever think maybe the TV is, like, two way?” 

“What?” Richie shifts their weight to better balance Jeff. “What are you talking about?” 

“Like a… whatchamacallit… a telescreen.” If Jeff closes one eye, everything stops spinning. 

“Seriously, how did you get so drunk?” Richie demands. 

 

 

Jeff wakes up still dressed, although Richie seems to have pulled his shoes off. His mouth is dry and his head is pounding. It’s pitch black. He stumbles to the bathroom and pisses for what feels like forever, then rinses his mouth. He’s shutting the faucet off when he hears what sounds like a rough sob. Jeff freezes. The sound came from down at the end of a long dark hallway. He straightens, staring into the darkness for a long minute. He could walk down there. There’s probably nothing there anyway. 

He waits, hand frozen over the tap, ears straining. But he doesn’t hear anything else. He goes back to bed and squeezes his eyes shut against the darkness. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

With the start of the season, and roster cuts, drawing closer, Coach is mixing up the lines. “Carter,” he calls out in the locker room, “how do you feel about playing wing?” 

Jeff snaps to attention. “Feel good, sir.” Because really, what other answer is there? 

“Good. New forward lines: Gratton/Sharp/Peluso, Sim/Stafford/Mikoff, Eager/Richards/Carter, Fedoruk/Murphy/Stapler. Let’s go.” 

Third line. That’s new. He catches Richie’s eye. Richie takes a deep breath. 

On the bench though, he doesn’t look nervous. “Just go out there and score some goals,” Richie says, “make me look good.” 

Jeff rolls his eyes, but he bumps his gloved hand into Richie’s shoulder. 

On a line, they are fucking _golden_. Now that he’s not centering the line, Jeff doesn’t have to worry about playing defensively quite so much; he’s free to find the best possible position in front of the net. And Richie doesn’t hang him out to dry in the north end of the rink either, he’s right there, watching his back. 

Their line combines for five goals. It is, of course, just a scrimmage. But _still_. 

As they come of the ice, Coach nods. He looks the closest to smiling Jeff has ever seen. Jeff is pumped. 

“Fuck, yeah – did you guys _see_ that?” Eager asks the locker room. He’s naked to the waist and his hair is sticking up in crazy spikes. 

“I definitely saw that. I had to play _against_ that,” Sharpie sounds disgusted. He tries to scowl, but it’s _Sharpie_ , so he can’t really be serious that long. “Not bad, boys,” he says, cracking a smile. 

Coach pokes his head in. “Centers? A word?” 

Richie pounds his shoulder on the way out the door; he’s still grinning. 

Jeff is humming along, feeling like the king of the world, right up until the moment Stapler shoulder checks him on his way to the showers. Jeff goes sprawling and just catches himself before his head hits the tile. “Oh, come _on_.” 

“What’s the matter, Carter?” 

Jeff folds his arms across his chest. “Look. I just want to play hockey, okay? I’m just playing my fucking game.” 

Stapes crowds in till he’s toe to toe with Jeff. “Yeah. We’ll see.” 

Jeff takes a step back. He’s not going to let Stapes goad him into a fight. Not here. Not right under Coach’s nose. After Stapes gives him what he seems to think is a sufficient stare down, he leaves. Jeff showers, and waits till he’s sure Stapes is gone before grabbing his stuff and heading for the dorms. 

It’s the middle of September, the snow’s kicked back in, and the walk back to the dorms is long enough his hair starts to freeze. He’s still pissed by the time he makes it through the door. It’s late enough that almost everyone is in already, except Richie and the other centers, of course. Jeff shakes the light dusting of snow off his shoulders, then pauses and looks around. It is suspiciously quiet. He can make out the faces of guys, most of them are pooled in lamplight, reading or at least idly flipping pages. He frowns. None of them look up when he comes in. 

He gets it when he rounds the corner and sees his bunk. “Oh, fuck me.” 

His bunk is neatly, evenly, covered with about half a foot of melting snow. He drops his shit and dashes forward, strips the sheets while bundling the snow inside the best he can. But it’s way too late – the mattress is basically soaked through. Cursing, he lifts it up, stands it on its side against the wall where maybe it has a prayer of drying. The sheets he takes the shower room and shakes the excess snow onto the floor. 

His hands ball into fists holding them. When he looks down his knuckles are white. He spins on his heel, blowing past Eager, who’s worked up the nerve to hover silently in the doorway. He makes his way to the foot of Stapes’ bed. Stapes is feigning serious interest in his stupid fucking magazine. Jeff sets his jaw and then wings the ball of sodden bedding at his head. “What. The. Fuck.” 

Stapes shoves the sheet away and pops up, instantly in Jeff’s face. “What’s the matter, Cartsy? You wet the bed?” 

“It’s not fucking funny, Stapes. Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep?” He shoves Stapes’ chest, sending him back half a step. 

“Ohh… _Now_ you’re mad.” Stapes has a mocking grin on his face, but his eyes are cold, serious. “What are you going to do about it?” 

Jeff swings, but he’s not a fighter and Stapes is, and dodges it easily. He gets Jeff with an uppercut to the jaw. Jeff is so furious he hardly feels it. He does manage to land his next punch, but it’s his last one. Stapes knocks him off balance with a hard jab. Jeff doesn’t even see the next one coming. 

“Hey! Hey! What the fuck?” Richie is suddenly between them, pushing them apart. Well, really, pushing Stapes back, because somehow Jeff is on the ground, with no clear idea how he got there. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, but his eyes don’t seem to want to focus right. 

“What the fuck?” He hears Richie ask again. 

“Oh, fuck you both,” Stapes answers. “Get your boy and get away from me.” 

“Carts. Carter.” Richie is kneeling in front of him, slapping at his cheeks. “Jesus Christ, Carts. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” He lets Richie drag him into the bathroom. Richie swipes a towel across his face, which _hurts_ , but results in his vision clearing. Somewhat. He’s surprised to see the towel come away red. 

Richie’s face is suddenly very close to his own. His brown eyes look worried. “You still with me, Carts?” 

Jeff nods. He feels slow, stupid. 

Richie presses a wad of tissue above his eye. 

“Ow,” Jeff says, frowning at him. 

“Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought about that before you got in a fight with _Stapes_.” He pauses. “Here, press on this. You going to lose any teeth?” He moves away, out of Jeff’s line of sight. 

Jeff runs his tongue over his teeth. The movement hurts his jaw, and his mouth feels gritty, but nothing seems loose. “No.” 

“Good,” Richie says, reappearing. He presses a jury-rigged icepack to Jeff’s jaw. “Now. You want to tell me what that was all about?” 

Jeff takes the icepack from him and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t really feel like talking. 

Richie raises his eyebrows at him expectantly. 

Jeff glowers. “You see the snow in the shower?” 

“The fuck you think you have pressed to your face?” Richie responds. 

Jeff pulls the icepack away to scowl at it. “Well, that was on my bed. That and a shit ton more of it.” 

“Ah.” Richie comes around to sit beside him. “Well,” he says finally, “you sure showed him.” 

Jeff punches him in the shoulder, which hurts his hand. _Nothing_ is fair. 

“No way,” Richie says, “you are officially done fighting for tonight.” He looks Jeff over critically. “Maybe forever.” 

Jeff slumps against him, and Richie lets him stay like that, just breathing. Finally, Richie sighs and shoves at Jeff. “You ready?” 

Jeff shakes his head, but gets up anyway. It’s dark in the dorms. Most everyone has turned in for the night. Jeff watches while Richie pokes at his sodden mattress. “Yeah. That’s not drying tonight.” 

“No shit,” Jeff snaps. 

Richie shoots him a pointed glare. 

“Shut the fuck up,” someone mutters sleepily. 

Richie raises his eyebrows at Jeff and then tugs on his sleeve. Jeff follows. When they get to Richie’s bunk, Jeff raises his eyebrows at him in a silent question. 

“It’s fine,” RIchie whispers crossly. “White and Skolney do it all the time.” 

This just makes Jeff’s eyebrows climb higher. 

Richie glares, defiantly strips off his track pants and sweatshirt, and climbs into bed. After a moment’s hesitation, Jeff does the same. He lies awkwardly next to Richie. The bed’s not really big enough for two; he’s not sure what to do with his arms. 

“Oh, for – ” Richie mutters at him, and tugs at Jeff until he’s lying on his side. Then he curls onto his side, tucking his back against Jeff’s chest. “There. Now go the fuck to sleep.” 

It’s strange, feeling the press and shift of Richie’s weight against him. Jeff closes his eyes. He tries to lie perfectly still. 

After a minute, Richie kicks his shin sharply. “Breathe, idiot.” 

Jeff does. Then he sleeps. 

 

 

Richie vomits before their first game, which sort of surprises Jeff, because if one of them was going to hurl, he figured it’d be him. 

Jeff hands him his water bottle wordlessly and Richie nods his thanks. 

It’s October. It’s the _preseason_. It’s the AHL. There’s, like, a _smattering_ of people in the stands. It’s not a big deal, Jeff tries telling himself. 

Ha. It’s fucking _hockey_. 

He almost can’t hear the announcer call his name over the pounding of his heart. Fortunately this bit’s all rote by now. Skate out. Circles. Line Up. Anthem. 

During his shifts, his focus narrows. He can hear Richie and Eager perfectly, everything else is just a low hum. Early in the second period, he catches an errant pass – lighting his stick up for the half second it take to make sure the puck is going to stick – and then he’s off, up the ice. 

“Net, net, net!” He hears Richie screaming, and when he looks he can see the blade of Richie’s stick parked in front of the goal – he’d recognize that tape job anywhere – and he slides the pass over. Richie does a neat deke and it’s in. 

They end up losing, 2-1. But there’s no denying they’re _awesome_. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

By the end of November they’re on a pretty serious win streak, and the other teams in the East are starting to gun for them. The game against Norfolk is a grinder; it’s tied up at 1-1, with Sharpie’s line having put one in on what amounts to an errant bounce. Jeff can’t get anything going, and Niitty, the goalie, is basically the only thing keeping them in it. 

They’re back in the wrong end of the rink – _again_ – and Jeff is backchecking like a madman, trying to keep Norfolk’s center off the rebound. Norfolk gets another shot off, and Niitty blocks it again, but he can’t get it covered, and he’s screaming at them to _ice it, ice it, ice it_ – when Jeff catches the flash of electric blue that means one of the Norfolk forwards is lighting his stick up. Up till this point guys have been playing pretty conservative, wanting to avoid injuries until the games really count, but now the gloves are starting to come off. 

Jeff first instinct is to look for Richie – who for being on a scoring line, seems to find his way into a lot of fights, but he can’t find Richie’s number in the scrum at the front of the net. And then it becomes clear that the Norfolk player is going for _Niitty_ – which – 

Not cool. “Hey, motherfucker!” Jeff twists away from the center he’s arguing with, but he’s only just pushing off towards net when Chernov sweeps in like an avenging fucking angel – fast and vicious and his stick a terrifying, glowing red. 

Chernov shoulders between Niitty and the forward, and even from his position, Jeff can tell he looks furious. He dips, shoves his weight all over onto one skate, to bend down, underneath the other guy’s guard – which is, frankly, a move a guy that big should _not_ be able to do. Then he’s got his stick up and the opposing player drops to the ice. 

He’s not getting up. And a red stain is blooming along the side of his jersey. 

The Ref whistles, and Norfolk’s trainers hustle out onto the ice. Jeff realizes he’s staring when Richie skates up to him, bumps him from behind. Richie gives him a _look_ and jerks his head away. So Jeff tears his gaze away and instead watches Chernov skate slow, lazy circles around the ice as he waits for play to resume. 

There’s a polite tapping of sticks as the Norfolk player is carried off. The ice crew spot cleans away the evidence, and Richie is already back at the face-off circle, waiting for the puck to drop. 

Jeff’s hands flex on his stick. He reminds himself to breathe. 

The game is still tied at the intermission before the start of the third. Jeff is blinking sweat out of his eyes, when Niitty comes up to him. Niitty is usually pretty quiet, albeit with that weird intensity that goalies seem to have, so it comes as kind of a shock when he grabs Jeff by the front of his sweater and shakes him violently. “You get scared,” Niitty says. It’s not a question. “You see what Chernov do to that guy who try to stab me?” 

Jeff nods uncertainly. 

“Yeah, you see it. He do a stupid thing. He try to touch me. _Me_.” Niitty jambs one thumb at his chest and scoffs like it’s the most unbelievable thing he’s ever heard of. “So, Chernov, he watch out for me. He take care of it.” 

“He watch out for you too, you understand?” Niitty asks, illustrating each _you_ with a jab to Jeff’s chest. 

Jeff looks over to where Chernov is sitting. He gives Jeff a slow, serious nod. 

“Yeah, I understand,” Jeff says. 

“Good.” Niitty takes a step back. “Now you go out there and stop playing like little girl. Score me some goals. I tired and no want to deal with stupid shoot out.” 

As they’re going over the boards for their first shift back, Jeff calls out to Richie, “I got a pep talk from Niitty. Turns out we need to score some goals, okay?” 

“That’s the plan, eh?” Richie says as they both skate out to the faceoff circle. 

“That’s the plan,” Jeff answers, setting the edge of his skate into the ice and crouching low. 

Across from him the Norfolk winger raises an eyebrow. 

Jeff smiles. 

Richie takes the faceoff – tips him the puck. Jeff scrambles for it, driving towards the net. He looks up at one point to see what looks like a wall of royal blue in front of him. But fuck it. He narrows his eyes, skates faster. 

He’s got a fucking _army_ behind him. 

He knows where Eager is, chips it to him blind. Chernov comes through like an orange and purple _wrecking ball_ , giving Jeff just enough room to slot back down in front of the net, just in time to be there for Eager to pass it back to him. He lofts it into the upper left corner. 

Across the ice he sees Niitty pump his stick up in the air. Jeff answers his salute. 

The game ends 3-1 Philadelphia. Fuck yeah. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

They’re back from their road trip after that, and Jeff is still shaking off the bruises and sleep deprivation that comes from being bivouacked in rec centers and church basements. Coach goes easy on them for once, calling them in to take a knee after an evening skate that ends when Jeff is still only mostly exhausted. “We play Wilkes-Barre on Wednesday. Lines for that game: Gratton/Sharp/Peluso, Sim/Richards/Carter, Fedoruk/Stafford/Mikoff, Eager/Rovy/Ruzicka. Chernov and Levitts, White and Skolney, Slaney and Meyer on D. Niitty between the pipes. Murphy, Jones, Stapler, you’re scratched for this one. That’s it boys, get some rest.” 

Chirst, Jeff thinks, just when they’ve reached a tentative detente. He sneaks a glance over at Stapler. Stapler is studying the butt of his stick intently; he skates off the instant as Coach releases them. Jeff hangs back, skating lazy crossovers around the rink. 

Richie falls into step with him. “Second line.” 

“Second line,” Jeff agrees. “Think we’ll see more minutes?” 

Richie pulls his bucket off; his hair is sticking up in ridiculous tufts. He gives Jeff a look like he’s said something incredibly stupid. “I think if you keep playing like you have been, he’ll give you all the fucking minutes you want.” 

Jeff flushes and looks down at the ice. He uses the tip of his stick to nudge at Richie’s. “Yeah, well. You know. Team effort and all that.” 

Richie rolls his eyes. “Let’s go; Stapes is probably long gone by now.” 

It’s crystal clear and cold out. November is almost gone. Jeff’s breath hangs in the air in a visible cloud. 

Richie stops midway back to the dorms, craning his neck up at the sky. “You can see the stars, for once.” 

Jeff follows his gaze upward. 

Behind them, the generators humming in the background cut out, and the last of the electric lights in the rink and the dorm buildings fade. Which means it’s nine o’clock. It seems suddenly much darker. 

“Look,” Richie says, and points. “See that? That’s Orion.” 

Jeff steps closer so he can follow the trajectory of Richie’s finger. “One, two, three,” Richie says, counting off three bright stars all in row. Jeff nods. 

Richie swings his hand a couple inches to the left. “And that’s Castor. And Pollux. The twins. See them?” 

Jeff squints. “Um.” He glances back over to Richie. 

Richie is looking back at him, his face flushed from the cold. His eyes are bright, and he looks so intense, so serious, that something clenches up in Jeff, like something’s squeezing his chest tight. 

Richie holds his gaze for half a second longer and then the serious look fades. He cracks a smile. “Come, on,” he says, dropping his arm, “let’s go inside. I’m fucking freezing.” 

They kick the snow off their boots before heading inside and make their way wordlessly to Richie’s bunk. Sharing bed space has become a pretty popular tactic as the temperature drops. But, if not everyone sleeps with their legs tangled and their foreheads pressed close, if not everyone slides their arms up underneath the back of their bunk-mate’s shirt, well, no one’s given them any shit about it, yet. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

The overhead lights click on all at once, buzzing into life. Richie grumbles and rolls away from him, burying his face in the pillow. After a beat, he reaches behind him to grab Jeff’s arm and tuck it more firmly around his waist. Jeff obliges, fitting himself closer to Richie’s back. 

Richie heaves a sigh. 

“Game day,” Jeff murmurs into the nape of his neck. Richie twists his head back to look at Jeff; his eyes are still heavy with sleep, but he grins. 

 

 

Two minutes into the first period Sharpie squints hard at a group of suits sitting among the crowded bleachers. “Play good tonight, boys,” he says, and then refuses to elaborate. Which, _thanks Sharpie_. 

By the second period, it’s clear it’s going to be a rough game. Wilkes-Barre is the AHL affiliate of the Black & Gold, and the rivalry between the Orange and the Black & Gold? That’s been going on since before Jeff was _born_. 

Wilkes-Barre’s defense is playing hard and tight, locking them out of the slot. Fortunately, their offense’s main skill seems to be chirping from the bench, so the score’s locked at 0-0. Richie, naturally, takes this as an invitation to dish out some spectacular open-ice hits. 

Bending low at the faceoff, the Wilkes-Barre center says, “I am going to fucking mess you up, Richards.” 

“Pfft,” Richie scoffs, “try it.” 

“Well then maybe,” the guy answers, “I’ll just take out your boyfriend.” 

Richie blinks. Wilkes-Barre takes the faceoff. 

Jeff is behind the net, chasing down the puck when he hears the whistle. He looks behind him, and yeah, there’s Richie and Wilkes-Barre center, going at it junior-style – gloves and sticks discarded on the ice, whaling on each other the wild punches. It ends with the Wilkes-Barre player headed to the locker room and Richie sitting in the box. 

Jeff shakes his head at him; sometimes Richie is so fucking predictable. 

Richie shrugs from the behind the glass. Then he cups his hands to his mouth and calls, “You’re welcome, asshole! Now do something with it!” 

Jeff rolls his eyes; he’s not really sure what Richie expects him to do short-handed. Coach swaps out their D-men for the penalty kill, but waves at Jeff and Simmy to stay on the ice. Jeff takes the faceoff, which he loses. Wilkes-Barre spends some time bouncing it around Philly’s end of the rink, acting like they’ve got all the time in the world to take their shot. Which, okay, yeah, but _come on_. 

Yeah, _fuck this_ , Jeff thinks, and when he sees an opportunity to strip the puck, he does, and blasts off up-ice. He drops his shoulder, rolls like he’s going to fire on the left side of the net. Their defenseman goes for it. Even better, their goalie goes for it. Jeff flips it to the other side of his stick and pitches it in on the right. He taps his stick on the penalty box glass on the way back to the bench. “Something like that?” 

“Hell, yeah!” Richie yells. 

“Momentum, momentum!” Coach screams. And it works, because Sharpie’s line follows it up with a sick goal thirty seconds later. 

 

 

And that, it turns out, is the game that gets Sharpie called up to the Big Show. 

Sharpie gets called in to talk to Coach following the game, and comes out with a dazed look. It morphs into a slow smile. “Well, I guess you boys are going to have to find some other handsome devil to center your first line.” 

And now it’s late – or early, really. They’re staying up with Sharpie, who’s leaving in the morning, passing the bottle back and forth. The night’s got a strange feeling, exciting and melancholy all at once. Sharpie’s spent most of the night pressed shoulder to shoulder between his line mates, who are telling increasingly improbable tales about what the three of them have got up to over the years, but at one point he comes over and settles himself next to where Jeff and Richie are sitting. Well, where Jeff – having learned the value of sipping – is sitting; Richie is slumped over, his face mashed into Jeff’s thigh. 

“You were always my favorite ducking,” Sharpie says, settling an arm across Jeff’s shoulders and passing him the bottle. 

“Um. Thanks?” Jeff counters. 

“You’re going to be the number one sharp shooter on the team, now, Ducks.” He squeezes the back of Jeff’s neck until Jeff looks over at him. His face is surprisingly serious. “Guys are going to be gunning for you.” 

Jeff glances over at where Murphy and Stapes are sitting and bullshitting. 

“Those guys are going to be the least of your problems,” Sharpie says, following his gaze. 

Jeff frowns. Sharpie’s face is still solemn, which has to be some kind of record for him. “You take care of yourself, okay?” He prods Richie’s prone form. “You take of each other.” 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

The game against Bridgeport is going to their first as starting line. Or at least, was going to be, for Jeff, until Murphy puts a slap shot into his foot at point-blank range. 

A week, minimum, the trainer says, depending on how his bones take to the sonication treatment. Maybe longer. Anyway, he’s definitely not going with the team to Bridgeport. By day three off his feet, Jeff is pissy enough that even Richie throws his hands up and says, “Jesus Christ, Carts. It’s fucking hockey, you’re going to get hurt! Fucking suck it up.” 

Jeff bites his lip. “It’s not fucking _hockey_ when you get taken out by your _own team_.” 

Richie’s eyes flash. “Yeah, sometimes it _is_.” He slams some clothes into his road bag. “Put your fucking foot up,” he says, “I’ll see you when we get back.” 

Jeff rolls himself onto his back and stares at the ceiling until he hears the doors slap shut and the voices fade. He closes his eyes. 

It’s dark when he opens them. He blinks for a second, disoriented. The dorms are quiet, still. Bridgeport is close enough that even most of the healthy scratches are tagging along to watch the game. He scrubs his hands over his face. 

And then he hears it. A broken, hoarse cry that gets cut off midstream. Jeff sits upright. He looks over toward the showers. Then back out around the room. It’s empty. He sits, breathing. 

Then he makes himself swing his legs towards the ground, pushes himself awkwardly upright. He makes it two steps toward the bathrooms, then looks back at his bunk. 

It’s nothing, he tells himself. The room will be empty. It’s nothing. 

He gimps over to the bathrooms. Pauses in the doorway. Then he rounds the corner into the showers. 

It’s not nothing. 

The first thing he sees is Rovy, pressed up against wall. 

It’s cold enough inside that Jeff can see his breath, and Rovy is still half-dressed but, for unfathomable reasons, wet. And shaking. And being held in place up against the wall by Stapes. 

Stapes glares. “Hey, Carts,” he says brightly. 

Jeff swallows. “What’s up guys?” 

The words hang in the air. Rovy looks at him, his eyes huge in the dark. 

Stapes laughs, stiffly. Then he steps back. “Anyway,” he says, brushing past Jeff, “I was just leaving.” 

They both hold their breath until Stapes is gone. Then, Rovy slumps. 

“Rovy,” Jeff says carefully. “Rovy?” He stretches a hand out. 

Rovy winces away from him. 

Jeff drops his hands. He stands there, feeling helpless and stupid and sick. 

Rovy shivers violently. And Jesus, Jeff is an idiot. He gets a towel, holds it out. Rovy takes it from him, and then lets himself be guided from the room. 

“Come on,” Jeff says, and shepherding him without touching him, takes him out into the dorms. Rovy curls himself into his own bunk, drawing the blankets around him. Jeff drags the blanket off his own bed and adds that one on top. He takes a seat on the edge of the neighboring bunk. Rovy’s breathing eventually evens into the rhythm of sleep. Jeff draws his knees up and waits. It’s late; the bus should be back soon. 

He looks back at Rovy. His stomach clenches, and he’s suddenly sure he’s going to be sick. He takes two steps towards the bathrooms and – yeah, no. Instead he grabs his coat and hat and heads outside, where he falls onto his knees and loses his dinner in the snow. 

Having accomplished that, he climbs the stairs to the roof, finds a sheltered spot amidst the shuttered solar panels, and waits for the headlights that will signal the team’s return. 

 

 

Jeff’s eyes flutter open. False dawn is breaking, the horizon line going gray and soft. He shakes himself, squeezes his fingers and toes to get the blood flowing. He can’t have been out long, but he doesn’t take any chances – he stands and stamps his feet until he’s sure he’s stable before attempting the stairs. He sheds his outer layers at his own bunk, but hesitates. 

There’s something in his chest. Some tight, fluttering panic hovering just at the edge of escape. At the same time he’s pressed down by bone-deep exhaustion. 

With feet like lead, he bypasses his own bed in favor of sinking down on Richie’s . He shoves the covers back and climbs in. Richie blinks sleepily, “Jeff?” 

Jeff pulls the blankets back over both of them, wraps them as tightly as he can. He pastes himself to Richie, and he knows it’s stupid, but Richie feels warm and vital and whole. He buries his face in Richie’s throat, and he wants that to be enough, needs it to be enough. 

It’s not. There is some horrible, broken noise trying to force its way out of Jeff’s throat, and he’s only half successful at keeping it in. 

Richie’s still more than half asleep but his arms tighten around Jeff. “Jeff. Carts. What is it?” 

Jeff squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Carts?” One of Richie’s hands comes up to cradle the back of his head. “Where were you?” he asks, coming more awake, and then, “what’s wrong?” 

Jeff breathes into the tight space of Richie’s throat. 

“Carts?” He hears real worry seeping into Richie’s voice. Richie reaches up to loosen one of Jeff’s hands from where he has it balled in Richie’s shirt. Threads his fingers in Jeff’s. “I’m not mad. That’s not it, is it? I’m not mad at you.” 

Jeff shakes his head. He can feel hot tears leaking out. 

Richie pulls him in closer. “Then what it is?” he says in a harsh whisper. “What’s wrong?” 

Jeff takes a slow breath in and out. And then he says, “We have to do something about Rovy.” 

Richie cranes his head to look towards the end of the room where Stapes sleeps, so Jeff knows – _he knows_ – he’s not crazy. Richie is squeezing his hand, so tight it hurts. “Carts, what happened? Carts. Talk to me.” 

“Nothing happened. I just. We have to do something about Rovy.” 

Richie is silent for a long minute. “Carts. What is there _to_ do?” 

“I don’t know! We just – I have to do _something_ , Richie! I can’t – ” 

“Okay, okay! Easy.” Richie brings his hands up to Jeff’s face, soothing. “We’ll do something. We’ll talk to Coach, or…” 

Jeff shakes his head. Even though he thinks Coach might actually sort of like him, that just sounds impossible. “Levi,” he says softly, “maybe Levi?” 

“Okay,” Richie agrees. “You can talk to Levi…?” He waits for Jeff to nod. “And I’ll… I’ll keep an eye on Rovy, okay? I’ll stay with him.” 

Jeff lets out a long breath. “Okay.” 

 

 

Finding a place to have a closed door discussion with Levi turns out to be easier said than done, because there are no goddamn doors anywhere. No place to _have_ a private conversation. 

He waits until he’s back on the ice. His foot isn’t quite up to practicing with the team yet, but at least he can skate. Shake some of the dust off. When almost everyone’s off the ice, he calls out, “Levi! You got a minute?” 

Levi passes his stick off to someone and skates over. “Sure, kid. What’s up?” 

Jeff takes them in long, slow loops around the ice, a pattern that brings them to the far side of where the Zamboni’s working, its engine serving admirably as white noise generator. 

Levi raises an eyebrow at him. 

They skate another lap. 

“Kid,” Levi says finally, “if this is about your spot on the line – you’ll still have it when your foot gets better. You don’t need to worry.” 

“No, no – ” Levi looks at him, impatient, so Jeff presses on in a rush, “It’s about Rovy. And Stapes.” 

Levi doesn’t break stride, but his mouth presses into a hard line. 

Jeff swallows. “I think – ” 

“You see something , kid?” Levi asks, his voice low. 

Jeff thinks back to the showers. “Not exactly – but I think – ” 

Levi executes a sharp turn that ends with him facing Jeff. “I don’t care what you _think_. I care what you _saw_. So. Did you see anything?” 

“No.” Jeff bites his lip. “But, Levi, something is _wrong_ – ” 

“Listen, kid. Something like this – if it comes down to your word against his, Chris Stapler been around a long fucking time. It won’t end well for you.” Levi lets himself drift back a few inches. 

“Wait,” Jeff says, “what about all the cameras? I could tell you _when_ to look.” 

Levi looks down at the ice, and when he looks back up his eyes are tired. He gestures, sharp, frustrated, “Look around, Carter. What do you see?” 

When it becomes clear he’s waiting for Jeff to answer, Jeff shrugs. “A rink. A skating center, what?” 

“A shitty rink in a half-falling down skating center. In a half-busted league. You know as well as I do the lights cut off every night at nine when the generators die. What do you think the cameras run on? Magic?” He thumps Jeff firmly on the chest. “And I don’t care if you are leading the league rookies in scoring, you of all people should appreciate that.” 

Jeff’s head snaps up. 

“Yeah,” Levi says, his watery blue eyes looking fierce. “So you watch out for yourself. And you mind your own goddamn business.” 

 

 

Jeff makes it back to the dorms to find Rovy and Richie involved in what has to be the world’s most awkward game of cards. “Hey guys.” 

Richie nods. “Hey. How’d it go?” he asks softly. 

Jeff glances over at where Rovy is studying his cards intently. “He didn’t want to hear it.” He lifts his gaze to meet Richie’s eyes, “But he knew _exactly_ what I was talking about. How’s he doing?” He nods at Rovy. 

Richie shrugs. “You’re looking at it. He hasn’t spoken to me. Or, even, _looked_ at me, really. Carts, we can’t – what are we going to do during away games? What are we going to do during _line meetings_? We can’t watch him every second.” 

Jeff sighs. The miserable part is that he’s right. “I don’t know, Richie. I don’t know what to do. But can we just – will you help me keep an eye on him a little while longer? Please?” 

Richie’s face softens. “Yes. Of course.” He worries at one of his fingernails. “Look, I’ll stay up with him the first half of tonight if you take the second half, okay?” 

Jeff smiles, nods. He watches Richie push off his bunk and head over to Meyer, who bunks next to Rovy. “Hey, Meys,” he says, “swap bunks with me tonight.” 

Meyer frowns. “What for, man?” 

Richie shoves his hands in his pockets. “Come on. No reason. Just humor me.” 

Meyer looks skeptical but he shrugs. “Whatever. Fine. But if Carter climbs in there with me I’m shoving him right back out.” 

“Thanks, man.” 

Richie resettles himself on his bunk. 

“Thanks,” Jeff says. 

Richie rolls his shoulders in a fluid movement. “No worries.” But his mouth is a flat, unhappy line. 

 

 

Over the next two days Jeff focuses tightly on keeping one eye on Rovy at all times. Which turns out to be a mistake, because he forgets to watch Stapes. Half the team are on an overnight trip to Grand Rapids, the rest of them have gathered in the lounge to watch the Orange play and cheer for Sharpie. “Hey Rookie,” Murph says from one of the couches, “I’ve got a bottle in my locker downstairs. Grab it for me and you can have some.” 

Rovy is safely ensconced on the couch, so Jeff rolls his eyes but says, “Sure thing, Murph.” 

Jeff trots into the locker room, and the next thing he knows the back of his head explodes with pain, and he’s trying to push himself up off the floor. Something slams into him, and he’s flipped over. He can’t breath – he can’t move – 

The pain in his head fades to an ache, and when he can focus he can see Stapes is above him. He has one knee pinning each of Jeff’s forearms, and he’s holding a practice stick firmly against Jeff’s throat. 

“Hi, Carter, how’s it going?” he says, and smiles. 

Jeff opens his mouth, but Stapes leans forward, pressing the stick down more firmly. “Actually, I don’t really care.” He presses until Jeff is gasping, black spots appearing in his peripheral vision. “I’ll make this quick; there’s a game on, after all. The thing is, Carter, I could kill you. And if I did, you know what I would do? I’d loop a piece of rope around your neck and hang your fucking faggot body from the nearest goddamn rafter.” Stapes leans down till his face is inches from Jeff’s, “And you know what would happen to you? You’d disappear and nobody would ever mention your name again. And you know what would happen to me?” He pauses, his eyes searching Jeff’s face. “Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. You understand?” He stands up, pulls Murphy’s bottle of hooch out of his locker. “I’mma tell the boys you stepped out to get some air. See you around, Carter.” 

Jeff curls in on himself, gasping. 

 

 

He spends the night in fitful, uneasy sleep. He wakes early and sits up to look at the clock. The team won’t be back for another couple hours. If he goes to the rink now, he can get some drills in and still not have to talk to anybody. 

The scrape of blade on ice, rhythmic and steady - it’s soothing. 

He’s just finished up and is stripping down in the locker room when he hears the shouts that signal the return of the team. Richie and the rest of the rookies will be dragging the gear bags back to the locker room. He resigns himself to being social. 

Ruzicka is the first through the doorway. He stops and squints at Jeff. “Hey, Richards!” he calls, “get in here!” 

“Coming, coming,” Richie is laughing as he comes through the door. He looks first at Ruz, and then at Jeff. Then he drops the bags and walks over to where Jeff is sitting. “Jeff. What the fuck happened to you?” 

Jeff blinks. Richie’s face is white. “What?” 

Richie reaches out a cautious hand and touches Jeff’s throat. 

Jeff can’t help it; he winces. 

Richie opens his mouth but doesn’t manage to say anything. 

Ruzicka says, “Dude, dude - ” and Jeff looks up, but Ruzicka is talking to someone just outside the doorway. “Hang back a second,” Ruz says, and follows whoever it is out, leaving them alone. Jeff looks back to Richie, who is regarding his neck with wide, serious eyes. He lifts his hands and turns Jeff’s head gently left, then right. 

Jeff swallows. “Does it look that bad?” 

Richie blinks rapidly and meets his gaze. “Yeah, Carts. It looks bad.” 

There’s a mirror at the other end of the locker room. Jeff gets up and walks over to it. His neck is a lurid combination of purple and red. He brings his fingers up to touch it gingerly. He meet’s Richie’s eyes in the mirror. “It looks worse than it is.” 

“I… don’t actually believe that.” Richie says. 

Jeff sits back down. 

Richie sits next to him. “What happened?” 

Jeff studies the pattern in the floor intently. 

“Jeff,” Richie says, “what happened?” 

“Uh,” Jeff hems. “Stapes… threatened me.” 

Richie nods once, sharply. “Okay.” He stands up. 

“Richie. Richie!” Jeff grabs his sleeve and tugs him back down. Richie’s eyes cut over to him, hard and angry. He’s shaking, Jeff realizes. 

“Mike.” It comes out low, almost inaudible. “Mike, just stay with me, okay? Just sit with me?” 

 

 

That night Richie twines himself behind and around Jeff, instead of the other way around. Jeff squeezes his eyes shut, and falls asleep to what may or may not be the sensation of Richie pressing his lips to the nape of his neck. 

 

 

Richie’s got a morning routine, which of course, Jeff knows. He usually presses up close to Jeff, until he realizes Jeff is awake, at which point he rolls away, and shortly after bolts for the bathroom. Like Jeff would sleep curled up with him more nights than not, and yet freak out over the fact that he wakes up with morning wood. Sometimes Richie is a fucking idiot. 

This morning, though, is different. Richie pushes himself up on one elbow to study him. He turns Jeff’s head this way and that, tips his chin up. “You look like you got clotheslined by a stanchion.” His voice is still rough with sleep. 

“Practice stick,” Jeff says. 

Richie’s expression turns dark. Jeff shoves at his chest half-heartedly. “I’m _fine_ , Richie.” 

Richie looks skeptical. “Besides,” Jeff says, “today is a good day. I get to start full practices today.” 

The corner of Richie’s mouth turns up. He stretches. “You want to get something to eat before practice?” 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

Rovy is not at practice. 

Jeff keeps catching Richie looking over at him, checking up on him, like he thinks Jeff might suddenly notice and then freak out. As if Jeff couldn’t play hockey with shit blowing up in the background and, like, limbs hanging off. In retaliation, Jeff starts firing no-look passes at him, only the first of which Richie fumbles before stepping it up, and knocking it off. 

After though, he trails Coach back up to his office. 

“Mr. Carter?” he asks, with a raised eyebrow. 

Jeff shuffles foot to foot. “Where’s Rovy? Um, sir.” 

Coach sets his glasses down on his desk and regards him with a flat gaze. “Rovy’s gone,” he says finally, “roster cuts.” 

Which is weird, because there were no cuts scheduled, nothing announced, and – _oh_. 

Jeff just nods. “Okay,” he says. And then he thinks he maybe says it again, but there’s a loud buzzing in his ears. He sort of watches himself leave the office. And calmly, he makes it to the bathroom before bringing up his breakfast. Jeff braces his forehead against the rim of the toilet, and thinks, when he can think anything at all, _oh shit, oh shit, oh shit_. 

“Carts?” 

Jeff spits. 

“Jesus, you’re like a fucking cat – always sneaking off somewhere to freak out,” Richie says rounding the corner. 

Jeff lets his forehead fall back onto the bowl. 

Richie pauses behind him. “You are freaking out, aren’t you?” 

Jeff nods. 

Richie slides down to the floor, folding his legs under him. “Carts. Carts, you can’t freak out about this. Hockey is _hard_ , it’s not for everybody. And Rovy wasn’t playing well. Hell – he was hardly playing at all.” 

Jeff pulls his head upright and turns around to stare at Richie. “Are you fucking kidding me, Richie? Rovy didn’t get sent back to the Blue & White! Rovy isn’t back in _Switzerland_. Rovy is _dead_ , okay?” 

Richie shrinks back a little. “You don’t know that.” 

“Bull _shit_ , I don’t know that!” Jeff snaps. “I know that. You know that. They – ” and he gesticulates as wildly and expansively as the confines of a bathroom stall will allow, “ _all_ know that.” 

“Carts – ” 

Jeff runs right over him. “And they’re _fine_ with it, apparently,” he spits. He exhales shakily. His vision blurs because he is, apparently, crying. Great. “So, yeah,” he manages to get out, in a stupid, wobbly voice, “I am freaking out.” 

“Oh, Carts.” Jeff lets himself be pulled against Richie’s shoulder before losing it entirely. “Jesus, Carts.” Richie’s arm tightens around him. “Just tell me what do, Carts. I’ll fix it. I’ll do whatever you want; just tell me what you need.” 

“I. Don’t. Know.” Jeff says between hoarse and incredibly embarrassing sobs. “ _Everything_ is wrong, here. I don’t know what to do.” 

“It’s going to be okay, Carts,” Richie tries. Which just makes Jeff freak out harder because it is emphatically _not_. “Oh, Jesus.” Richie shifts Jeff around, tucks Jeff’s head under his chin. “Breathe, Jeff. Listen to me. I’m going to figure it out. We’re going to get out of here. We’re going to be fine, okay? I’m going to figure it out. I’ll fix it, okay? Just breathe, please?” 

Jeff curls in on himself, closes his eyes, and tries very hard to believe that. 

They’ve got 24 hours until their next game, one that will clinch their spot in the playoffs. The team gives Jeff loads of space. Possibly because he’s walking around with red eyes and a ring of still-Technicolor bruising around his throat. Or possibly because Richie has been shadowing him all day, hackles up. Either way, no one says anything stupid like, “Hey Carter, glad you’re back. Now please score us enough goals to make the playoffs.” 

No one says much of anything. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

In the locker room, Coach looks him up and down. “You ready to play, Carter?” 

Jeff slants his eyes towards him and says, “yes, sir,” in a tone he would never have dreamed of taking with a coach before. 

Coach just blinks at him and nods. Sim looks at him like he’s crazy. On the bench, Jeff says, “Just get everybody _out_ of my way” and doesn’t take his eyes off the ice. 

Sim leans forward to look past him at Richie with huge, imploring eyes. 

Richie shrugs. “You heard him.” 

Jeff plays mean, sloppy, ugly hockey. He grabs the puck, races up ice by himself, and takes stupid, improbable shots over and over again. He doesn’t bother to wait for his teammates to catch up, doesn’t even try to pass. And when Richie doesn’t get him the puck, he starts poke-checking it away from the other team, slinging his sticking knife around with impunity. 

He’s pissing Albany off, but good. He lets Simmy and Richie run interference for him, lets them take his lumps for him, and pretty soon Richie is close to breaking his own single-period record for most minutes in the box. 

Jeff takes a certain, vicious pride in the fact that the first period ends 2-0, both of them his. Both of them unassisted. Then he makes the mistake of glancing up. Richie’s got one eye rapidly swelling shut, and Simmy keeps shaking out his right hand. “I’m done now,” Jeff mutters on the way back out from the locker room. 

“Okay.” Richie keeps one hand on his shoulder as they file into the bench. “Okay.” 

After that Jeff skates like he’s got lead in his skates or sandbags around his waist. But in his place, Richie steps it up. “Alright boys,” he calls out, “let’s shut it down here!” And after that, he’s everywhere. Up the ice, forechecking. Down the ice, helping out Niitty. And every shift, every line change, screaming out encouragements. “That’s it boys! Come on, boys!” 

The game grinds to a shut still at 2-0. They’re going to the playoffs. 

That night, instead of celebrating with the guys, Jeff curls up in his own bunk and watches the shadows move across the ceiling. 

Richie doesn’t come for him till late, till Jeff thinks he maybe isn’t coming at all. He smells like the cooking sherry Hadley sneaks them. Richie settles on the edge of his bunk and puts a hand on Jeff’s arm. “Hey Carts.” His voice is hoarse. 

“Hey.” 

Richie rubs his hand up and down Jeff’s arm. “Playoffs, Carts.” 

Jeff huffs. 

Richie reaches out to touch his cheeks, his chin. “You’re going to look terrible with a playoff beard.” 

Jeff jerks his chin away and Richie sighs. “I’m trying to make it better, Carts,” he says, “I’m trying to fix it.” He waits, but Jeff can’t bring himself to say anything. Eventually, Richie stands up. “Goodnight, Carts.” 

 

 

The next day is technically a day off, but Jeff goes running along the trail that circles the compound, pushing himself hard – to see what gives out first his wind or his foot. He stops halfway round at a point where the trail runs along the fence line and curls his fingers in the chain link, gasping. He pauses to catch his breath, staring out at the empty road and the fields beyond. 

It would be easy to climb. There’s no wire at the top, or anything. It’s just a fence. As he’s watching, a militia vehicle rolls down the road, slow, its windows tinted an opaque black. It drifts past him without stopping. 

But what would be the fucking point? It’s not like there’s anywhere to go. 

 

 

 _Round 1. Norfolk._

At practice, Hoarse-Richie has become the new normal. He watches all the players like a hawk, calling out suggestions and encouragement. He’s on the ice early. And the last person off the ice isn’t Levi anymore, it’s Richie. 

Jeff finds the whole thing a bit irritating. But the rest of the team picks up on his enthusiasm, and they carry the first two games of the series easily, essentially without Jeff. Jeff, for his part, is basically sleepwalking on the ice half the time. He spends so much time staring at the ground he’s starting to memorize the scuff marks on the tops of his skates. Maybe somebody says something to him about, maybe not. He’s not really listening. 

After two games on home ice, they pack into the bus and make the drive south. The trip terminates with a long bridge crossing. “Oh, shit! Look at all that water!” Eager yells, leaning into Jeff’s space. 

“Twixt green sea and azure vault,” Jeff mutters, keeping his eyes fixed out the window. 

Eager drops back into his seat, frowning. “You gotta get out of your own head, man.” 

Jeff laughs sarcastically. “Remember, they’ve had at least a quarter of a million warnings against solitude.” 

Eager gives him a _look_ , like he’s being weird. Jeff takes an odd pleasure in Eager’s confusion. He thinks about just saying, out loud, the tumble of words going through his head: _mesa, pueblo, bottle-green_. Let him believe Jeff’s fucking weird. But instead he just turns back to the window and the expanse of nothingness. _That has such people in it_ , Jeff thinks. 

He catches a nasty slash halfway through the second period, one of Norfolk’s knives cutting through his sweater and deep into the foam core of his chest protector. It wakes him up enough to actually do a decent job assisting Richie on the one goal they get that night. 

After the game, Richie says, “Good hustle out there today, Carts.” And it’s just so – such a _normal_ thing to say, that Jeff actually laughs. And even though they _lost_ , Richie smiles, broad and bright, like he means it. 

Norfolk puts them up in a gymnasium, so Jeff’s shoes squeak against the floor as he navigates the rows of cots. He hesitates when he gets to Richie’s, suddenly conscious that they haven’t really _talked_. Not for like a week. Richie looks up at him with a curious expression, and then wordlessly slides over to give Jeff a place to sit. “Hey,” Jeff says. 

“Hey.” 

Jeff turns his water bottle end over end, worries at the flaking label. Then Richie reaches over and presses one hand into Jeff’s jittering knee, stilling it. Jeff looks up. Richie’s got a tiny, little smile on his face. He clears his throat. “How’s your chest?” 

“Fine,” Jeff answers. “My chest protector’s trashed, though.” 

Richie shrugs. “They’ll get you a new one.” 

“I’m still kind of fucked up about… everything,” Jeff confesses. 

Richie’s hand kind of tightens on Jeff’s knee. “That’s okay,” he says. 

Jeff bites his lip. Nods. “So, what’s with your whole postseason… attitude… thing?” 

Richie huffs out a chuckle. In a low voice he says, “I’m _trying_ to make this a good team, Carts. I’m _trying_ to make this the kind of team where shit like what happened to Rovy, shit like _this_ ,” and he touches the last fading remnants of the bruises on Jeff’s neck, “doesn’t happen.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Jeff whispers back, “how you going to do that?” 

Richie’s mouth curves into a small, shy smile. “The same way I do everything. By kicking ass.” 

Jeff’s lips twitch. 

“I have a plan, okay? We just need to keep winning. You onboard?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Jeff says. But he can still feel the sadness he’s carrying around like a weight. 

It takes them six games, but they beat Norfolk. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

 _Quarterfinals. Wilkes-Barre._

They win three and drop one to Wilkes-Barre. The games are good enough – or at least the rivalry’s a big enough draw – that their home games get moved to The Orange’s home ice, in the center of Philly. Jeff drifts out onto the ice for the warm up a little star struck, staring up at the jerseys hanging for the rafters. The banners. 

“It’s worth it,” Richie says, skating by him. 

Jeff looks around. Maybe it is. 

Richie starts things off fast with an early, short-handed goal that has everyone on the bench and everyone in the fucking _building_ on their feet and screaming. But Wilkes-Barre answers just as fast. Then Meyer makes a bad pass and suddenly they’re down 2-1. 

They’re shorthanded again in the second. “Come _on_!” Richie is screaming at the penalty kill unit on the ice. “ _Help him! Help him_!” Wilkes-Barre is fucking pounding on Niitty, and there are audible groans from both sides of Jeff when they finally put it past him. 3-1. 

At the second break, Richie does almost as much talking in the locker room as Coach or Levi. “They’re fucking _tired_ , guys. You can see it in how they’re skating. They got nothing left. We are still in this fucking hockey game, all right? So fucking play!” Jeff pulls a dry shirt on and starts to replace his gear. _He’s_ fucking tired. Levi’s bent forward, head practically between his goddamn knees, exhausted. Slaney and Meyer have been quiet ever since shit got screwed in the first, and even _Chernov_ , who Jeff previously believed was made of granite, is moving slower than usual. 

A minute into the last period, Wilkes-Barre scores again – running it up to 4-1. The shot is like a blow to Jeff’s stomach. Eight minutes spent almost entirely in their zone later, Coach calls time. He points at Little – the backup goalie – and _oh shit_ , Jeff realizes, he’s pulling _Niitty_. Niitty comes off the ice with a string of curses and pitches a water bottle at the wall. 

“Boys, there are eleven fucking minutes left in this hockey game,” Richie tells them. Jeff looks around at the exhausted and skeptical faces he’s talking to. “That is _so many fucking minutes_ ,” Richie says. “Levi can’t even count that high, right Levi?” 

Levi looks at him, blinking sweat out of his eyes. And then he cracks a smile. “That’s right, Richards.” He turns to the bench, “That’s a lot of goddamn minutes, boys – so let’s play them!” He skates back onto the ice. 

And then it’s Levi who snipes the rebound. Levi who carries the puck in deep, and Levi who puts them up, back on the board at 4-2. 

The bench fucking _explodes_. 

Jeff’s eyes get stuck on Richie – who is basically jumping in place, screaming, and bashing his stick into the ice so hard Jeff is afraid he might break the thing. His face is the perfect picture of joy – the face of every kid who’s ever scored playing shinny. Watching him, something squeezes hard in Jeff’s chest, and _oh_ , he realizes suddenly, he is, like, _stupid in love_ with Mike Richards. 

Who knew? 

Jeff’s grinning so hard it hurts. Coach calls for a line change and he’s _flinging_ himself over the boards, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to put the puck in the net. 4-3. 

Simmy catches it too – he looks over at Jeff, his eyes sparkling. And when Jeff feeds him the puck, he drives it in like there’s no one there. Simmy’s mouth is moving but Jeff can’t hear him at all, the noise is _insane_. 4-4. Six minutes left. 

Line change and Jeff joins his compatriots standing at the bench in the losing of their collective mind. Defense sets their second line up perfectly, and suddenly, they’re fucking _winning_. 

There’s another timeout, where Wilkes-Barre swaps out their goalie, and Coach sends Niitty back out. Jeff glances over at the new Wilkes-Barre goalie, then meets Simmy’s and Richie’s eyes in turn. “You want to beat this one, too?” he asks. 

“Oh, hell yeah,” Simmy says. 

Because why the fuck not? 

With Richie feeding them pucks, Jeff puts it past the new goalie for 6-4. Simmy gets the empty-netter to finish the night off at 7-4. 

_7 fucking 4_. They’ve just won their Division. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

Jeff expects Richie to want to be at the center of the mad fucking celebrations that are happening back at their compound, so it’s a surprise when at the first available opportunity Richie tugs on his arm and tows him towards the door. 

“Where are we going?” Jeff asks. 

“Come on,” Richie says, heading out into the dark, “you’ll see.” He takes them across the yard to the dining hall, and once there, bypasses the rows of empty tables and heads straight for the back – for the kitchen. 

Just around the corner, out of view of the doorway, the kitchen is lit up with a half a dozen chempaks. Jeff blinks in the sudden light. Chernov, Niitty, Mikoff, and some of the other imports are sitting around one of the kitchen islands. Their conversation pauses when Jeff and Richie walk in. Jeff feels shy, like they’ve interrupted something. 

“Richards, Carter,” Chernov says, inclining his head slightly. 

“Hey.” Richie comes to stand in front of Chernov. “I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk. About the team.” 

Chernov studies him carefully. “Have a seat.” 

Richie goes to grab two stools and someone calls out a question in Russian. 

“Sure, why not?” Chernov answers and Mikoff pours out two shots from a mason jar sitting in the center of the table, then he tops off everyone else’s glasses. 

“Za vas.” Chernov smiles and throws his drink back. Jeff lifts his own rather uncertainly and follows suit. He manages, heroically, not to cough. His eyes maybe water a little, though. 

Niitty laughs and claps him on the back. “Not bad, eh?” 

Richie clears his throat. “So here’s the thing. We’ve got some really strong scoring lines, but if we were a little bit bigger, a little bit grittier we’d have more.” Richie sets his glass down and looks Chernov in the eye. “If our defense we’re more mobile, more two-way, we’d have that. And of course, we’ve got some good centers than can fall back and play defensively if needed.” 

Chernov exchanges looks with the other Russians. “And why take this idea to me?” 

“Everybody on D listens to you,” Richie says shortly. “Even Levi listens to you.” 

Chernov smiles. He pours another round out of the mason jar and waits for Richie to swallow his. “You know, I see what you’re trying to do.” He holds his glass up, seemingly studying the clarity of the liquid. “You’re trying to make the enforcer role redundant.” He tosses his drink back and sets the glass down with a satisfying clink. “You’re trying to get Stapler sent down.” 

Jeff blinks. 

Richie holds Chernov’s gaze. “He’s already playing marginal minutes. We don’t need him.” 

Chernov tilts his head, thoughtful. “We’re in the playoffs. It’s an odd time to be changing our defensive strategies.” 

Richie frowns. “Coach has been mixing our lines up all season. We’re nothing if not flexible. It’ll be better for the team in the long run.” 

“The long run is a strange argument to make for someone who will more than likely be called up to the NHL next season.” 

Richie’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. 

Chernov laughs. “Yes, really.” He glances over at Jeff. “Both of you, obviously.” The rest of the Russians are nodding, looking amused. 

Richie shakes this off. “Still. It’ll be better for the team.” He studies the glass in his hands. “There are going to be new rookies, next year,” he adds softly. 

There is a long pause, during which Chernov regards Richie with a solemn expression. The rest of them look between the two like it’s a tennis match. Finally, Chernov says, “He’s played for this team for a long time.” 

“Things change.” 

The corner of Chernov’s mouth quirks up. “I guess they do.” He gets up and retrieves a piece of butcher paper from the roll on the counter and snags a pen from Niitty. “Okay, Misha. I will help you. Here are the drills I would like to run…” 

And they’re off and running. Eventually Richie says, “But what I don’t know how to do is convince Coach to actually _run_ these plays.” 

Chernov laughs and waves this away. “Coach Stevens watches us closely. He watches our mistakes even closer. Run this play as a ‘mistake,’ then let him… what is the word? Percolate? On it overnight. I guarantee you he will run it the next day.” 

Richie sits back, smiling, “You think?” 

Chernov holds his hands out expansively. “I have been here a long time. Trust me.” 

“Why?” Jeff asks abruptly. 

Chernov’s eyes narrow. “Why what, Carter?” 

Jeff really hadn’t actually planned on saying that out loud, but he pushes on. “Why are you still here? You’re good. Like, _really_ good.” 

Chernov laughs. “I see why Sharp liked you,” he says. “I’m not going to get called up, Carter, I have too much… political baggage. Besides, why should I want to play with bigger, stronger, more motivated to hurt me guys when I can stay here? Play a comfortable game?” 

Jeff frowns. “You don’t want your years? You don’t want to be a Free Agent?” 

Chernov’s face closes off. He pours himself another shot. Wordlessly, the other imports push their glasses forward too. When he looks up again, his eyes are very dark. “How many Russian Free Agents do you know?” He holds out a hand, belaying their answers. “How many _Free Agents_ do you know?” 

Jeff exchanges a look with Richie; he has a wary expression. “Gretzky. Robitaille. Hull. Lemieux.” 

“Yzerman,” Richie adds. “Coffey. Messier…” 

Chernov cuts them off. “Great fucking players. Legendary players. A _handful_ of players. How many men do you think play hockey for the NHL?” 

Jeff is silent. 

Chernov nods. “They won’t make it easy for you. But for us – ” he shrugs, “for us it is even harder. Most of us didn’t _choose_ hockey. Or for many of us it was a choice between hockey or a prison cell.” 

Jeff looks around the table. Niitty and some of the others are studying the table top intently. Mikoff is giving him a flat, hard stare. 

Chernov chuckles, and it’s absolutely mirthless. “They are not about to turn us loose in their _precious_ Union.” His eyes flash. “Maybe it will be different for you. I _pray_ it will be different for you.” He says something in Russian and the other players answer in a chorus. He turns his attention back to Jeff and Richie. “Get some sleep, boys.” He taps the scrawled drill plans. “We have work to do tomorrow.” 

It’s too warm for them to sleep together without raising eyebrows now, but Jeff follows Richie back to his bunk anyway, sits down next to him. 

“It _will_ be different for us,” Richie says. He looks at Jeff. “We will get through this. We will get out.” 

Jeff nods. He’s about to get up when Richie adds, “I live next to this lake, in Ontario. It’s frozen most of the year – it’s great for skating. We have a cabin. It’s… it’s basically the most beautiful place in the whole world.” 

Jeff swallows and darts a glance over, but Richie’s not looking at him. “My dad says the only things that changed with the Revolution were you can’t buy porn in the bait shop anymore, and now people have to make their own booze.” 

Jeff smiles a little. 

Richie rolls his shoulders. “We could go there. After.” He’s still not looking at Jeff. 

It’s stupid, Jeff knows. It’s stupid to plan. It’s stupid to even think about it. But it’s also pretty clear to him that in this moment it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter if they won’t ever make it out, doesn’t matter that he couldn’t go with Richie even if they do. It just matters that he _would_ if he _could_. So, “Okay,” he says. 

Richie’s head comes up a little. He sneaks a look at Jeff. 

Jeff nods. “Okay,” he says again. 

 

 

At practice the next day, Coach pins an “A” on Richie’s jersey. Jeff is basically beaming, prouder than if it had been him. 

“Ugh, Jesus,” Simmy says. “Look, we’re all grateful you two kissed and made up, or whatever. But could you tone it done? A little?” 

Jeff grins. He is also pretty amused, because this same practice where Richie gets his “A” from Coach is the same one they’re kicking off Richie’s plan to, you know, totally undermine his authority. 

It’s hard to say if it works. In the scrimmage, their defensemen slot forward neatly, and Richie falls back, easy and clean to make up the difference. Coach watches it all with an inscrutable face. But the next day, when they get their lines, Stapes is scratched from the series opener, so Jeff is prepared to count it as a win. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

 _Semifinals. Providence_. 

In Game 1, it works fucking _great_. Meyer gets a hat trick – which, Jeff is pretty sure, is the first time in a very long while a defenseman has done that for this team. Maybe the first time _ever_. Providence doesn’t stand a chance. 

Game 2, Providence works so hard covering their D-men that it’s like they forget that forwards can score points too. Jeff gets a nice feed and puts one in early. Providence rallies, but Niitty is fucking amazing and blocks, like, all the million and half shots Providence makes. Then Ruzicka makes one. Then, in what is starting to feel like tradition, Richie gets the empty netter. 3-0, and an all-rookie scoring night. Genius. 

By Game 3, Providence is _pissed_. “Hey, Princess,” the guy next to him at the faceoff says, “I heard you don’t like taking hits. Maybe you just need more practice, because you do look like you spend a lot of time on your knees.” 

Jeff rolls his eyes. This is neither original nor exceptional when it comes to chirping. 

Jeff catches a pass from the blueline early, and he _would_ do something with it, except Providence seems to be gunning for him, so he passes the puck on to Eager. And he has just a split second to realize he’s in a bad spot – too deep in the corner to be safe – when the asshole Providence forward – _Hayes_ , his name is _Hayes_ – sends him into the boards. Hard. He takes the hit across his back and shoulders, bouncing off the glass so hard he gets tunnel vision for a second. He’s still getting his feet back underneath him, when he notices one of Providence’s D-men skating towards him. And – come on – that last one was already a late hit, _this_ is going to be ridiculous. 

He tries to push off, but there’s a lancing pain that runs down his back into his leg. The defenseman smiles, and lights up his stick. 

_Jesus Christ_ , Jeff thinks, _where is the fucking linesman_? 

But it’s not the linesman that saves him – it’s Eager. Skating in hard and fast, he crosschecks the guy. He looks furious. Jeff takes the opportunity to hobble off the ice. He makes it to the bench, where he waves off the trainer. It’s fine. He’s played through worse. Glancing out on the ice, he realizes several things – namely that Eager and the Providence defenseman are fucking going at it on center ice. Flashy, too – Eager swings his stick in a wide, glowing arc before the Providence player catches him off guard and sends him to the ice. The linesmen intervene before he can do any real damage though. Second, that they’re going to be on the penalty kill, and seemingly will be for most of this game. And, finally, that Eager managed to fucking score before saving Jeff’s ass. They’re up 1-0. 

Their line takes another faceoff – this one right in front of Philly’s bench. “So which one of these guys’ cocks were you choking on last night, Princess?” 

“Seriously?” Jeff asks. “That’s all you’ve got?” 

Hayes smirks. “Well, I could make fun of you for being a fucking coward who can’t take his own fights, but that’s hardly original, is it?” 

The puck drops. 

It fucking hurts to chase it down. He does it anyway, but he’s so _slow_. He passes it off to Richie, “Take it in!” 

Richie does a nice job of moving it down the ice, especially since Hayes is heckling him the whole way down. Jeff can see his mouth moving, but he’s too far away to hear what he’s saying. He can, however, see Richie’s face, and this is not going to end well. 

Hayes poke-checks it away before Richie can get a shot off. He doesn’t get far though, because Richie nails him in the back of the head with his stick. And immediately gets called for high-sticking. The buzzer sounds for the end of the first. On the way down to the locker room they learn the refs are calling it a major – Providence is going to start the second with a five minute power play. Great. 

Jeff is immediately intercepted by the trainer, who herds him into the PT room. “Strip,” he says. 

Easier said than done. His back is knotting up into one fiery mass of pain, and getting his shoulder up enough to get his sweater off is work. The trainer helps him peel the rest of his gear off and then he starts prodding at Jeff’s shoulder. 

“Ow,” Jeff says with as much indignation as possible. 

The trainer snorts. He jabs an injection of something into Jeff’s muscle. “Where else?” 

Jeff waves a hand vaguely at his lower back, “And then it, like, shoots down my leg?” The trainer nods like this makes sense. He shoots Jeff up and then tosses him some ice. 

Which is when Richie pokes his head in. There are few things more embarrassing than standing around in your jock, holding ice to your ass, but whatever, it’s just Richie. 

“Hey.” Jeff sketches a wave. 

Richie winces. “Hey. How is it?” 

“It’s fine. I’ll live. I’ll play.” Jeff awkwardly swaps the ice over to his shoulder. 

Richie comes forward and takes it from him. He holds the ice to Jeff’s back cautiously. 

“Down,” Jeff says, and after Richie adjusts, “there. Thanks.” Then he snorts. 

“What?” 

“I’ve been getting called a fag all night, and now here I am, in no condition to appreciate this.” He tries for a joking tone, but when Richie leans around so he can see Jeff’s face, he looks serious. Angry. 

“Just so you know, I’m going to kill that guy,” he says. 

“I’d really prefer you didn’t do anything else to leave us short-handed,” Jeff answers. 

Richie squints. “No promises.” 

The second period is fast, brutal, and scoreless. But in the third, Providence scores, tying the game. They go into overtime, and the goal that Providence gets – it’s ugly, the result of a mad scramble outside the crease – but it’s a goal. Jeff heads straight for the bench because _home_ – he just wants to go home. 

Eager’s just behind him until one of the Providence players calls something out to him, and he stops dead on the ice – then whirls around and he’s flying towards the guy. Three of Providence’s players close in on him, which is good enough to send half of Philly’s bench off to his aid. Jeff stands. The trainer twists a hand in his jersey and pushes him back down. “Oh, hell no,” he says. Jeff glowers at him. 

And yeah, Richie’s out there in the melee, and Jeff can see Hayes making the universal _bring it_ gesture. Which Richie does, admirably, by beating the ever-loving shit out of him. They still lose, but it’s better than nothing. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

Jeff is lying on the floor, stretched out across a bag of ice, when a shadow falls across him. It’s Stapes. _Oh_ , thinks Jeff, looking up, _this could be bad_. 

And then – “Hey Stapes!” Fedurok calls out. “Long time, no see, let’s catch up.” He slings an arm around Stapes’ shoulders, gently tugs him away from Jeff. Stapes frowns at Fedurok, looking confused. 

“Come on, man. Let’s play cards or something.” 

And Stapes, hesitantly, goes. 

Later, Richie throws himself on the ground next to Jeff. He rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up on his elbows so he can stare down at Jeff. 

“I think your plan is working,” Jeff says, looking up into Richie’s upside-down face. 

Richie grins down at him. “Oh yeah? What – ” 

“Mr. Richards!” 

They lock eyes for a second, frozen. That is Coach. Coach is _never_ in the dorms. And he sounds pissed. Richie scrambles to his feet. Jeff starts to get up too, albeit more slowly. 

“Don’t get up, Mr. Carter.” Coach furrows his brow. “ _Mr. Richards_ ,” he continues, “for your part in the fight in the game on Monday, the league has suspended you for one game. You’re out of Game 4, you and Eager both.” 

Richie’s mouth drops open. 

“Don’t fuck up again, Richards.” Coach leaves without waiting for an answer. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

They lose Game 4. It’s not really a surprise – but it still sucks. And playing without his line, Jeff finds out, really sucks. Richie and Eager are waiting for them in the locker room when the game ends. Richie looks _wrecked_. It’s a quiet trip back to the compound. 

“Mr. Carter,” Coach says as they drag themselves back towards the dorms, “a word?” 

Jeff exchanges a nervous glance with Richie, passes his gear off to him. “Sure, Coach.” Coach walks them back to the rink, back to his office up on the second floor. 

“Have a seat,” he says. He walks to window. The silence stretches on. Jeff stews in his own nerves. He has time to check out the framed photos on Coach’s desk. The titles of the books on his shelves (all playbooks and treatises on hockey; all perfectly legal and correct). Finally, when Jeff is about to jump out of his own skin, Coach motions with his hand, “Come here.” Jeff stands up. 

“Look at that,” Coach says, pointing out the window. 

Jeff looks. He sees the bus, now empty, except for its driver, with the doors standing open, waiting. As he watches, Chris Stapler comes out of the dorms, bag in hand. He gets on the bus. The doors close. The bus leaves. 

Coach waits until the bus is out of sight. “What does that tell you, son?” 

Jeff’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips. “Stapes is leaving?” 

“Stapes is leaving,” Coach repeats back. He gestures at the desk. “Sit.” 

Jeff sits. 

Coach takes the seat opposite him. “Teams are funny things,” he says after a long minute. “Such a delicate balance. You have to balance everyone’s strengths. Their weaknesses. Have to balance personalities. Everything has to mesh for it to work.” 

Jeff nods uncertainly. 

“And of course, no one’s perfect. I knew a winger once – slowest guy on the ice, hardly stayed upright some days – but if you could get him the puck, he had the most amazing shot you’ve ever seen.” Coach looks at Jeff over the rim of his glasses. He folds his hands together. “And sometimes it’s smaller things – on one team I played with this goalie, the only thing he would let us listen to in the locker room was country music. It was Hank Williams, George Jones, every goddamn game. But we put up with it, because he pitched shut outs. You see what I’m saying, Carter?” 

Jeff stares at his hands, “Um.” 

“We put up with our teammates’ idiosyncrasies because the help us, because they balance us. Because they _contribute_.” He leans back in his chair. “But if they stop contributing, if they stop helping, there’s no more room for us to put up with that.” He studies Jeff’s face closely. “You’ve been shown considerable leniency here, son.” 

Jeff flushes, because that’s not _fair_. He hasn’t _done anything_. 

“But you’ve running sort of hot and cold lately,” Coach continues, “you need to step it up. You need to _contribute_.” He pauses to let that sink in. “You understand me, Carter?” 

“Yes, sir,” Jeff manages. 

“Good. You can go.” 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

They drive to Providence the next day. Jeff is acutely aware of Richie sitting next to him on the bus. He looks down at where they’re pressed together, hip to hip, leg to leg, and for the first time, feels incredibly self-conscious. He looks around and wonders what the other guys know. What they think they know. 

Richie looks over at him. His face is open and unworried. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Jeff twists away to stare out the window. 

 

 

The first two periods are scoreless, with Jeff finding that mindless terror is not really a great _contribution_ to his game. In the opening minutes of the third, though, Levi takes a bad slash to his leg. He goes down, hard. Chernov helps him off the ice, and they all stand to watch their Captain head down the locker room. As Jeff watches, Slaney and the other veterans on the team exchange looks. “Yeah, I got it,” Slaney says. 

The veteran lines combine to score three goals in the last period. Enough to win. The guy who took out Levi – he gets carried out, too. 

 

 

It’s a win, but Jeff is still acutely aware that he himself still sucks. Providence has put them up in a building across the street from their rink, and he makes the walk head down. He glances up as he’s walking through the doors and stops so hard Richie runs into him from behind. 

Above the doors, it reads, PROVIDENCE PUBLIC LIBRARY. 

“Dude, what?” Richie sidesteps and peers up. “Earth to Carts? Hello?” He tugs on Jeff’s arm. 

Jeff blinks and almost resists. But that’s stupid. He goes inside. 

It’s empty. 

Obviously. 

All the books are gone and the empty shelves have been pushed up against the walls to make room for their cots. It’s also a suspiciously quiet room for a bunch of guys who just won a hockey game. He looks around. Eager meets his eyes and then looks significantly towards the corner. 

There’s a Morality Officer sitting quietly in the corner, reading. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s got on the long black robes, the strange flat hat. It’s pretty unmistakable. Jeff stumbles towards his bunk. As he walks past, the Morality Officer sets down his papers. “Would you like a work book?” He points to a stack on his desk. 

Jeff freezes. “Uh. Yes. Thank you.” He takes two and hands one off to Richie who gives him a tight smile and nods his thanks to the Morality Officer. 

They spend the evening in near silence. Most of the guys have their morality work books open in front of them, although from where Jeff is sitting, he can see that Eager at least is just drawing mustaches on all the cartoon illustrations. Gratton is diligently shading in all the o’s. Richie finally slides his to the side. “Want to play cards?” he whispers. 

Jeff glances over at the Morality Officer, still reading silently, and then back to Richie. “Can we?” he whispers back. 

They play Go Fish. 

“He’s not going to bite you,” Richie hisses at him after, like, the eleventh time Jeff glances up to check on what the Morality Officer is doing. 

But, Jeff notices, Richie is also sitting as far away from Jeff as possible. So maybe he knows they were doing something wrong too. But they can’t really talk about _that_ , so Jeff says, very quietly, “My dad was a librarian.” 

Richie freezes and looks up at him. “Oh, yeah?” he says carefully. 

But Jeff realizes he can’t really talk about _that_ , either. He bites his lip. He takes the pen from where it’s sitting on top of Richie’s work book. He writes in tiny letters on the two of diamonds: I HATE THEM. He passes the card off to Richie on his next turn. 

Richie stares at it for a long time. He gestures for the pen and writes something else on the card. When Jeff gets it back, it says: YOU’VE GOT **ONE** WAY OUT OF HERE. 

Richie is staring at him with dark, imploring eyes. Jeff swallows. God, doesn’t he know it. 

 

 

Skate out. Circles. Line Up. Anthem. 

_Hockey_ , thinks Jeff. _Hockey, hockey, hockey_. 

He plays fast. He plays hard. He plays like he has everything to lose. 

They win. 

 

 

-=- 

 

 

After all that, after 100 games of hockey, they sweep Chicago in the finals. And just like that, they’re done. 

It’s not _anticlimactic_. It is in fact, pretty fucking dramatic. Jeff plays some of the best hockey of his life, every single member of their team plays their goddamn heart out. And they win, and it’s _glorious_. There is a cup (The Cup). There is confetti. There is an official (nonalcoholic) champagne toast. There is a lot of illicit drinking afterwards. 

But it is also _weird_. Jeff keeps catching himself thinking about the next game, only to realize there is no next game. They’re done. 

 

 

It’s day two post-victory when Jeff gets called into Coach’s office. He freezes, because sitting across the desk from Coach is _Bobby Clarke_. Coach waves him in, “Carter, this is Mr. Clarke, GM for the Orange.” As if Jeff didn’t know. “Mr. Clarke, Jeff Carter.” 

“Of course, of course,” Clarke says, and _stands up to shake his hand_. “Sit down, son.” 

Jeff sits. 

“We were very impressed by your play this year,” Clarke says. 

“Thank you,” Jeff manages to say without passing out. 

Clarke grins. “So what do you say? You want to come play for the Orange next year?” 

Jeff nods dumbly. “Yes. Sir. Thank you.” 

“Great!” Clarke is doing an admirable job of pretending Jeff’s answering like a normal human being and not some star struck kid. But then, maybe he deals with this all the time. “So let’s get you signed, then we’ll get you home for the summer, so you can have a little break before coming back for training camp.” 

Jeff’s gaze jerks up. “Home?” 

“Yeah! A little R&R. We want you fresh for camp.” 

Jeff blinks rapidly. _Home_. 

“So, if you’ll just sign here…” and Clarke slides over a stack of papers. 

Jeff glances between the papers and Clarke, trying to decide if it would seem rude to read them first. He looks to Coach. “Read it through, first, Carter,” Coach says softly, “can’t hurt to be familiar with it.” 

Clarke grins broadly. “Of course. No problem at all.” 

So he reads. Not that he gets a lot out of it. There are a lot of words he doesn’t know. It refers to a lot of appendices he doesn’t have. He gets to the subsection titled _Free Agency_ , and here he pauses. It reads, _Any player who has completed nine full seasons under contract and/or played on four Stanley Cup winning teams shall be eligible for Free Agency_. He looks at Clarke. “Nine years. Or four cups?” 

“That’s our standard deal,” Clarke answers him, unblinking, “that’s how it’s always been.” 

Jeff gets a sudden twist of fear, looking at him, and he thinks of Chernov saying “they won’t make it easy.” 

And then he signs. 

 

 

They’re putting him on a bus that afternoon, so after shoving his not-very-many things together there’s really only one thing he needs to do. 

“Yo, Richie,” he calls. 

“Hang on – ” Richie slaps the ping pong ball back toward White. Who misses. Richie holds both arms straight up in the air. White groans, “You’re insufferable, you know?” 

“I’m a winner by nature,” Richie responds, “I can’t help it.” Richie is a winner. He fucking _kicked ass_ in the series against Chicago. They both did. 

“I got next game!” Slaney calls. 

Richie glances over his shoulder at Jeff. He sets his paddle down. “Naw – I’m sitting this one out, you can play White.” He trots over to Jeff. Behind him, Slaney makes a motion like he’s cracking a whip. 

“What’s up?” he asks Jeff. 

Jeff jerks his head towards the door. He takes them outside and sets them walking along the running trail. He waits till they get out of sight of the main buildings, and then he says, “I signed with the Orange today.” 

Richie stops dead. “That’s awesome!” His eyes are huge; he puts his hands on Jeff’s shoulders and shakes him. “Seriously, Carts – that’s great!” 

Jeff brings his hands up to cover Richie’s wrists. “I signed. I’m going to play with them next season, and listen – I really, really need you to be there, too.” 

Richie’s expression softens. “Of course I’ll be there.” His hands squeeze Jeff’s shoulders. “You know I will.” 

Jeff nods. “I’m leaving today.” 

“What do you mean?” He looks confused. 

“They’re sending me home – to the Blue & White. For a break before camp.” He can feel Richie’s pulse under his fingertips. 

Richie’s throat works. 

And Jeff squeezes his eyes shut, because there are so many things he wants to _do_. So many things he wants to _say_. And if they got caught, if someone saw – 

“I’ll miss you,” Jeff says, and he slides Richie’s hands free of his shoulders. In the space between their bodies, he squeezes them tightly, for a just a second, before letting go. 

 

 

 

 

On the bus ride he holds onto that. Thinks about the feel of Richie’s hands, and tries to breathe that into the jagged places inside him. The bus rolls north.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have to tell you that everything in this is made up, right? Ok, given that, this story is (loosely) based on the actual playoff run of the 2004-2005 Philadelphia Phantoms and their eventual Calder Cup win. The names of the characters involved are a mix of reality-based and entirely fictional.
> 
> Players that are alluded to but not named in the fic: Eric Staal, Marc-Andre Fleury, Nikolay Zherdev, David Tremblay, Rejean Beauchemin, Ville Hostikka, and Ryan Potulny.
> 
> Named players: Stefan Ruzicka, Colin Fraser, Alexandre Picard, Patrick Sharp (aka Sharpie), Rick Kozak, Josh Gratton, Mike Peluso, Ben Stafford, Freddy Meyer, Jon Sim, Ben Eager,Todd Fedoruk, Mark Murphy (who, presumably, is not as much of an asshole as he comes off here), Kam White, Wade Skolney, Antero Niittymaki, and John Slaney. 
> 
> Entirely fictional: Rovy, Emory Levitts (aka Levi. The real captain was… Boyd Kane, I believe, who I didn’t use to avoid name confusion w/ other famous Kanes), Chris Stapler (aka Stapes, for obvious reasons), Chernov, Mikoff, Hayes (based mildly on Brad Boyes – who is (hopefully) also not as much of a dick as depicted, but did actually score in this game, and did get into it with Richards on the ice).
> 
> Murray is named in honor of Terry Murray, who bounced around the Flyers organization for several years during this era, serving intermittently as Asst. Coach and scout, before leaving for LA (and now having the dubious honor of being one of, like, two guys the Kings are not bringing back next year).
> 
> There are also some significant divergences from reality regarding the hockey itself (um, besides the obvious). These include the following points:
> 
> Jeff Carter and Mike Richards didn’t actually play the full season with the AHL – they played with their respective OHL teams, and were called up for the playoffs.
> 
> Jeff Carter continued to play mostly (exclusively?) center.
> 
> Patrick Sharp played a full season with the Phantoms (obviously, as there was no NHL that year). 
> 
> Technically, the NHL didn’t adopt shootouts as a way to end regular season games until the 2005-2006 season. I _think_ the AHL went to shootouts following an overtime period in 2004-2005, but don’t hold me to that.
> 
> In the series against Providence, the Phantoms actually won Game 4, and lost Game 5 instead of the other way around.
> 
> Things that really did happen in this playoff run include the first defenseman hat trick, the 7-4 game (with 6 goals scored in the final period), the bench-clearing brawl against Providence, and Eager and Richard’s single game suspension for fighting. And they really did sweep Chicago.
> 
> Also, the 2003 Draft class really was that amazing. Seriously. And the beep test is really hard, that part’s true.
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> The Norfolk team they play against would have included Brent Seabrook, Duncan Keith, and Colin Fraser.
> 
> The Wilkes-Barre team had Marc-Andre Fleury, Rob Scuderi, Ryan Whitney, _and_ Max Talbot.
> 
> The Providence team would have had Brad Boyes and Patrice Bergeron.
> 
> I feel really compelled to include a note here regarding player nationality. In this fic, I simplify a lot of foreign players under the heading “Russian” or just “imports” – part of this was to make writing this thing easier, but part of it was a conscious choice to depict a society in which these players’ background/culture/rights/language is entirely devalued. There’s a reason I’m calling it a dystopia. The best example I can think of is that I sort of imply that Niitty, the goalie, is Russian, when in fact the guy he’s named after is Finnish. No disrespect to your favorite player (or Nation!) is intended.
> 
> Along those lines, one technical point of order: The winner of the 1992 gold medal for ice hockey in the winter Olympics was actually the “Unified Team” – which consisted of Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Belarus, Uzbekistan, and Armenia.
> 
> Jeff’s literary musings touch on: _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ by Ken Kesey, _1984_ by George Orwell, Shakespeare’s _The Tempest_ , and _Brave New World_ by Aldous Huxley
> 
> And, speaking of classic literary works, this fic also contains a line that is a direct shout out to [Hawks and Hands](http://archiveofourown.org/works/91685/chapters/124871), by [Dira Sudis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/). Way back in the day, that story was probably the first hockey-related fic I read, and definitely the first one I loved – so it probably deserves some of the credit (blame?) for this thing existing :)
> 
> FINALLY. This saga of Jeff and Mike is by no means done, and if you’re interested in helping me with the next one, meaning reading or batting ideas around, or even if you’re just interested in just talking hockey, I’d love to hear from you! You can reach me at ionthesparrow12 at gmail.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic of] Hockey at the End of the World, Part One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4679924) by [anna_unfolding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_unfolding/pseuds/anna_unfolding)




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